How Does That Even Work? Among Other Such Things
by Grand Phoenix
Summary: Once, Nova was a soldier. A tool to be used. In the Nexus, however, with her mind transitioned between sanity and childlike absurdity, she searches for a new purpose...and a way to get Sylvanas to notice her. Damn her other selves, she was here first! [A story set in Impressions!verse, featuring: worldbuilding, slice of life, and a linear plot]
1. Chapter 1

**Notes1** : I just finished typing this and going over the manuscript _(EDIT: "Just" as in "I just finished typing this as of almost TWO MONTHS AGO")_. I recline back in my seat, look over the summary, and think to myself, "Holy shit, I'm actually really doing this." I'm still hard-pressed to consider this straight-up romance (you know who you are), primarily because I do not have any such experience myself in that particular field; as Li Li mentions, that kind of knowledge comes from being a third-party observer for when my brother was dating years ago when we were attending college. Other than that, my views on interpersonal relationships are idealistic at best and very cynical and pessimistic at worst. If anything, I have always said to myself that I should like to expand my horizons in regards to writing romance. I have this tendency to go down the "fade to black" route because I've felt it to be more effective, and yet there are times where I just want to throw down the gauntlets and, you know, take up the challenge. It's complicated.  
 **Notes2:** In terms of, well, "romance", I compare it to that of the _Tenchi Muyo_ series (excluding the doujinshi). This will never reach the levels of _Shinmai Maou no Testament_ , but if I know my readers well, I can guarantee one of you is going to either ask me or outright dare me to do it. In which case, I'll probably take that person up on their offer (so long as it's not Lucario) because I can never resist a challenge.  
 **Notes3:** This story will have a more linear plot compared to _First Impressions_ , and a story to boot. You won't have any need of a timeline like you would for that. This story will also be an exercise in worldbuilding, since there's really not too much in the game itself.  
 **Notes4:** There's no specific schedule to this or any of the other stories I've put off or are working on due to my work schedule, so don't expect specific dates and times for when a chapter's uploaded. You could consider this chapter a sort of "pilot", so I'd be interested to see if anyone would be intrigued to have more.

* * *

"You know, you're really, really bad at lying."

"What?" Nova asked, looking up from the mug of ale she was about to imbibe in. She set it down and glanced sidelong at Li Li. "What makes you think I was lying?"

Li Li blew a raspberry and waved dismissively at her. "Oh, please! Anybody who's anybody can tell you were, quite literally I should say, stumbling over your feet, not to mention your words, at the merest sight of Sylvanas Windrunner. And, not to mention again, you almost got shanked just for bumping into her."

"I was, uh, indisposed about, er, something," she said, and it wasn't quite a lie. Getting drunk was one thing, but thinking of Sylvanas was the last thing she had on her mind in that moment. Contrary to popular belief, Nova was not as crazy-stupid as most of the noblesse and middle-lower class citizens perceived her to be. She still had her sanity, still retained common sense. There were…times…instances, really, when certain interactions made her remember the life she had before the Nexus. Most of those times took place when she slept, and the dreams that occurred reminded her of the first days she spent in the wilds, wandering and wondering, rifle aimed at the trees, at the eyes peering from the darkness between the branches. It left her feeling cold, hollow, like the title she bore, and it unnerved her. She wanted to forget. Li Li didn't have to know.

And, perhaps, Nova didn't want to know anymore than she already did, either.

Li Li nodded knowingly. "Right. That almost cost you. Good thing Uncle Chen had some of those kafa beans on him and fixed that press." She gestured at the machine behind the bar at the opposite end of where they sat, where the bartender, some long-tailed lizardman who visually resembled a protoss, was filling up a Styrofoam cup for a customer.

"She's killed me over a lot less. Remember the fan in the storage room?"

"The fan…? Oh! Yeah, I remember! You were a liar then, you're still a liar now!" Li Li grasped the cup of juice in both hands and drew in a deep draft. Ah, grapes.

Nova had half a mind to give Li Li the good ole one-fingered salute, but she figured it to be too uncouth for a girl her age, so she settled on scraping the underside of her chin and shaking a fist at her. "Bop yourself on the head with a nerf bat! It was…was just an accident. That's all." Indeed it was!

Li Li sighed contentedly and licked her lips. She snickered. "Yeah. Those eyes she was giving you sure must've caused one."

"She gives those eyes to everyone!"

"But they're different!"

"I don't see how. They look the same to me."

Li Li waved the bartender and asked for a second round, to which he acquiesced and excused himself to fetch the pitcher. "Look at it from this angle: it's one thing for Sylvanas to be killing Arthas any chance she gets. You know why, right?"

Nova sniffed. "Because he killed her in her sector. The Banshee Queen variant we're talking of."

"That's right. She's justified to go after him because it's both revenge and catharsis. Rumor has it she didn't participate in the final battle at Icecrown."

"Beats me. I wouldn't know."

"So of course she'd take the opportunity to murder him as much as he wants! You, on the other hand," Li Li was saying, index finger leveled at the Ghost, but she paused as the bartender returned with the juice. She dug around in her tunic, pulled out a silver dollar, and snapped it in his direction. He caught it in midair, bowed low at the waist, and took his leave. She took another draft, sighed again. "You…You're different. She gives you That Look, see. It's very important because it's capitalized. It's a bit of a mix of two opposing spectrums: on one side, it's the look a predatory animal gives to its prey before it makes its move—she's just waiting for her to slip up so she can sink her claws in 'em, maybe even a knife between the ribs or in the guts. However, on the other side of the spectrum, there's a certain element of wariness, the kind of gaze a scientist makes when she's trying to solve the code that'll stop nuclear missiles from blowing up all the over world; the kind of gaze a middle school student gives when they're trying to solve a really hard math problem. It's also the kind of gaze a person shows when they know what to say but deep inside they're not really sure what to make of the situation they're in so they just go with their impulses. Like Sylvanas snapping your neck that day than kindly but firmly telling us to get the heck out. By the way, she turned Jaina and Valla into pincushions; Kerrigan and I skedaddled outta there pretty quickly. You get what I'm saying?"

For a long time, Nova stared at Li Li. Her face was hard and stiff and her eyes were wide and calculating, her lips pressing into a firm, invisible line. It didn't help that the fluorescent lamps hanging above their heads made them shine even brighter and whiter, like a life-size doll with porcelain in its skull. Li Li wondered what was going through her mind.

"Li Li, how old are you?"

That was an unexpected question. "Uh…fifteen."

Nova shook her head. "Like hell you look fifteen. You don't even act fifteen. Fifteen-year-olds don't talk like they came out of a streetsmart Stephen King doorstopper."

"Stephen who?"

"Never you mind that, Li Li. I am very glad that kafa press is working."

"If it wasn't, you'd be taking another trip through the Hall. How many times does that make that?"

Nova looked away, blushing, rubbing the back of her head. "I, uh, kind of lost count. I'd have to look through the books again."

Li Li sighed, rolling her eyes skyward. "Ugh! You gotta do something about this, Nova! You can deny it as much as you want, but when even a little girl like me can see your reactions are as plain as the sunny days in Luxoria, it's not only damning but it's pretty telling you're dancing around the issue! Very, very badly, I must say."

Nova looked away again, fully facing the other end of the bar. She clenched the mug. "…I'm not into women that way."

Li Li blew another raspberry, rolled her eyes again, waved that dismissive wave of hers. "That is such a lie!"

"And Sylvanas is…well, she's undead. They're pretty edgy and don't feel that positive mumbo-jumbo like Nazeebo does."

Li Li was silent. "Well," she began, "you're right—"

"I'm always right," Nova said proudly, sticking her nose up in the air.

"But you are so obvious around Sylvanas that no amount of beating that dead horse is going to convince people otherwise. I'll bet even the Powers are in the know!"

"You're too young to know this kind of stuff."

"Hey, kids younger than me know more than people care to admit. They'll tell you the same thing."

"They're kids, Li Li. They're young and impressionable, so they'll parrot whatever their friends and family say."

"You underestimate us, Nova," Li Li said, scooping up a handful of almonds from the ceramic bowl placed between them.

"I think I'm more qualified between the two of us who should be saying that," Nova countered, and made to reach for the nuts. They sounded crunchy, and she yearned to savor the taste of salt and sweetness mashed between her molars.

Li Li swiped the bowl under her hand and pulled it close toward her, give her a warning look— _You've had too much to drink tonight,_ it told her. _Don't waste the kafa._ "Just take the plunge, Nova. I mean, you're a _soldier_. If you can assassinate people without feeling so much as remorse, you can confess your feelings to a brooding, self-professed high elf queen of the walking dead. Or the Ranger-General variant; I know you feel the same way about her, but you've known the Banshee Queen longer than that one. It's really up to you."

Nova rested her chin on the palm of an upturned hand, squashing her cheek against the gauntlet's cool black metal. "…And if she doesn't reciprocate?"

"Then at least you can say it was worth a shot. I mean, that doesn't mean you still can't be…well, 'friends' is stretching it but 'partners of convenience' kinda fits the bill. You'd just have to accept it and move on to the other Sylvanas. She seems to be more…approachable."

"She almost twisted my arm out of its socket once because she wanted to prove ghosts couldn't feel pain."

"You could still try."

"And if that doesn't work, either?"

Li Li frowned. "Oh. Uh…well." She found the grain in the counter top to be extremely interesting. It was so shiny she could see the reflection scratch the fur between her ears; if she stared hard enough, she figured that she might be able to see the wheels turning ponderously in her head. "You should tell her," she said. "Both of them. Get it out of the way as soon as possible…before someone else snatches them up. Like, uh, Li-Ming or that new girl…uh, what's her name…right, Tracer. Maybe even Illidan."

" _Illidan?!"_ Nova exclaimed, perking up suddenly at the name. She had spoken a little too loudly, which attracted a number of curious and alarmed gazes from the bartender and nearby patrons. Li Li waved them off, and they returned to their activities. "I thought he was still hung up Tyrande?"

"He is, and there's no doubt he's not interested. It's just some wishful fantasies I hear pass around from the serfs, who hear it from the noblesse, who it here from the tabloid reporters. People are…really dedicated to the idea…b-but don't worry about it! It's just gossip! Illidan prefers respect over interpersonal bonding, anyway!"

"I'm not worried."

But she looked it all the same, even if she was doing a somewhat decent job trying to maintain a stoic façade. "You have to try! You saw her first! You said so yourself. If there are others who are interested and willing to share, then you'll have to let them know."

"I guess so." And that was very much true, but the conversation had brought a grim little rain cloud to pour on Nova's otherwise sobering mood. She drank what little remained of the kafa, tossed some gold and silver coins next to the mug from her change purse, and hopped off the stool. "You know a lot about this sort of thing for a girl your age."

"I never claimed to be an expert in relationships," said Li Li, tapping her hands on the counter, swinging her legs back and forth to an internal, seesawing rhythm. "It's all about observing and learning with the six senses. I could be wrong, though. People tend to exaggerate the details a lot more than they should."

"Thanks for the advice. I'll keep it in mind."

"Go for it, Nova! I believe in you!" Li Li called out after her. Nova couldn't help but wince at the noisy proclamation, earning more than a few quiet giggles and fist bumps from the customers she passed by on her way to the exit. She sniffed at their responses, but for the most part ignored them.

When she arrived at the dormitory, the sky was darkening and the first stars of the night appeared like a magician's trick. There were a few students lounging on the benches or under trees or by the fountain, holding private conversations reserved for social cliques or smoking in the designated areas. Nova brushed by them and entered the building, stalked down the halls, passively skimmed over the signs pointing to specific wings and upper levels, the fire exits, the basement leading to the boiler rooms, the cafeterias, the elevators, the teleportation networks connected to particular points throughout the Hubland, various niches and alcoves she could find safety in or a place to hide or make something of it. She did this until her feet carried her to Room #16. She opened the door.

The room was mutedly fetching to the eye. Blue carpeting; white-painted walls adorned with pennants ranging from Nexus U, State of Hubland, the Cult of the Raven, the Gravekeeper's Seminary (it had once been the _Necromancer's_ Seminary, until Xul arrived and prompted Him to change the institute's name, much to His chagrin), Dragon Shire Academy for Higher Learning; awards for highest damage and siege output; a Xeroxed copy of the repair bill regarding the reconstruction of the stables from last year. A ballistic missile that Nova hoped was a dud was mounted on the wall above one of several desks containing pictures of tanks from the Koprulu Sector, War World III, and group photos of the girls (Jaina, Valla, Kerrigan, Johanna, Li Li, Tyrande Whisperwind and Tyrande Windrunner, herself, and both Sylvanas variants—one disgruntled and the other very petulant) strewn between a hastily-thrown pile of blank paper with a fountain pen on top and a datapad connected to the USB port of a charger/portable music player. The beanbags in front of the TV set looked cold and empty; the TV itself was on and showing a program about restoring old vehicles both hovercraft and land-based uni-wheel pods dating back to the 8900's. She smelled rice, fried meat, and apples coming from the kitchenette to her left. There was also the hint of napalm in the air, faint like the residue of skunk spray. Either Hammer had returned from another day at the garage working on the tanks and choppers…or she opened a can of the stuff long before Nova arrived. That woman loved her napalm.

Nova walked by the area and approached her side of the room. The bed sheets felt cool to the touch, smelled of laundry detergent and cordite from when she broke down, cleaned, and repaired the sniper rifle yesterday evening. Said weapon was propped up against the wall by the nightstand, holding a Renaissance-era alarm clock (the ones with the itty-bitty bell that chimed blaringly upon the hour it was set to wake its occupant), a hardback copy of Victor Milán's _The Dinosaur Lords_ and an empty leather sheathe for the combat knife that she was certain was still under her pillow; she checked and it was. A table-cum-desk sat beneath the window overlooking the garden and rampant strands of ivy and dandelions, a minor mental note she made to herself to get around to doing soon before they started to seed and spread. There wasn't much on the desk save for a large calendar; a Rolodex; a plastic cup holding several pens, pencils, plastic and wooden rulers, and a roll of clear Scotch tape; her own portable music player that was disconnected from the port, and framed copies of the photos that were on Hammer's side.

One in particular caught Nova's eye: a picture of her and the Banshee Queen Sylvanas in the town plaza during Noblegarden. The food stands and gift shops were bedecked in colorful streamers, balloons, and signs declaring free items with every two or three purchases of the same brand of eggs, red alert prices on hot items such as seasonal knickknacks, scarecrows for the upcoming crop planting, and derby hats, and an arrow-shaped sign pointing to the path leading to hayrides and horse and tallstrider rides around the pens. Nova recalled that day very clearly: she was pulling Sylvanas along on the road to see the sights, take in the smells of beasts and folk and aromas of grilled meats and marinated fish and caramelized vegetables and sharp, sweet spices, and at one point she managed catch Jaina, who, by luck or dint, had a digital camera dangling from a black shoelace string around her neck. She had snapped the picture of the two of them, posing with the peace sign. Nova couldn't help the corner of her lips upturning at that. She had been pretty into it. Sylvanas…well, even looking disgruntled, she got in on the act. The scar along her nose made her seem as though she were blushing. Maybe she was, having been cornered by what was surely Azeroth's equivalent to a Disney princess and an overly cheerful soldier.

'Cheerful'. Such an odd word to associate herself with now. Such a word would be a far cry for the Ghost in the past, one which held no meaning. It may as well be a corpse. It may as well be a phantom that has just now come back to haunt her. Or, more reasonably, it and all the other positive emotions from long ago, from before the Academy, before the gutters, before the mind blast—

Before the eyes in the woods of the dark receded and….

Nova perished the thought. "Why am I even thinking about that," she grumbled, putting her back to the photo lest those thoughts sullied its purity. They didn't control her anymore. The Nexus was a place of opportunity, regardless of the general snobbery, laziness, Kaijo attacks and invasions from the Realm of Darkness, and instances of people and creatures not affiliated with the Leagues and its contested territories crossing through dimensions (like those cute white dogs). One could help provide for the needy, the poor, and the peasantry and become a paragon of goodness. One could both stake his economical and financial claims and advocate becoming a lord or lady of barony or leading examples of technological advances. One could declare his or her dominance and wage a perpetually locked war with the other realms via their connections with the Hero League. There were many ways a person ripped from their sector could do here.

For Nova, she had thought for a long time on what she wanted to do.

Eventually, she came to the conclusion that there was no better way to spend time in the Nexus than to start anew, and…make sense of these newfound, buried emotions.

It seemed fitting enough, regardless of the…circumstances.

"Hey, welcome back!" Hammer said, leaning backwards through the open threshold. Nova turned around and thought she saw a frying pan in the Sarge's hand. "How long you been here?"

"I just got here," Nova said, shrugging. She sniffed. "Did you put the flame up on very high again?" Yes, something was definitely burning in there.

"Hell yeah! I'm frying hot dogs and eggs on the skillets! You want 'em now?"

"As long as they're not black as Darkness and the yoke's still runny."

"Roger that! Give me a few more minutes!" Hammer straightened out and disappeared into the kitchen.

"Try not to burn the place down while you're at it! I like living here, and I don't want to have to see another citation from the League in the mail again."

The kitchenette—and, to an extension, the entire building—did not burn down, and they settled for eating at the kotatsu, even though the evening was still relatively warm. Nova ate lightly, content to listen to Hammer recounting the details of the day; she had been busy running tune-ups on her tanks and those of her variants', assisting Gazlowe and Raynor and Tychus with operating the Chop Shop and taking inventory of its supplies, and allowing a good number of customers to give their rides a test run. It was all standard fare, nothing too special. In another three to four weeks, another Hero would emerge from the timeways and prove his or her mettle for the masses. Perhaps that person would bring a vehicle with them for the Hammers and Gazlowes to gloat over. Perhaps the League would be commissioned by a noble House to construct a mechanical mount or offer them a beast from any of the wayward realms to this new arrival, a subtle gesture of friendship (and mutual convenience), hoping to earn their favor and sponsorship in the leagues.

When asked by Hammer what she did today, Nova fumbled for an answer: "Oh, uh, you know, target practice at the grounds— _targets_ , not people, Hammer. Come on, you know me. Uh, what else? I took one of my walks today, 'round the fairgrounds, through the plaza, past the lakes and back. Then, uh, I hit up the Whimsical Unicorn and, uh," she paused, thoughts lingering. Should she tell her about Sylvanas? She wondered, and decided to continue, venturing forth tentatively with, "I kinda bumped into Sylvanas. You know how it is with all that sauce in you, the mind's not always there. So I bumped into her and…well…I almost added another mark to my latest book, see. Had this real murderous glint in her eyes, or maybe that was just the glare from the overhead lights; what's it called again? It's that thing cats and dogs get when you take a picture of them with the flash on." She snapped her fingers. "Uh…eyeshine! It's eyeshines! Man, I didn't think elves, let alone undead ones, had that—"

"Nova, honey," Hammer interjected gently, smirking over a brimming cup of Kaja cola, "you gotta do something about her. _About_ her," she enunciated slowly, seeing the startled look on her face, "not _to_ her…but hey! I won't judge ya—"

"No, but I'll stop you right there!" Nova exclaimed, slamming both fists on the table hard enough to make the silverware rattle. "Come on! I haven't even done so much as offer her to take potshots and orbital strikes at Arthas way back during Valentine's Day!"

"That's a date right there." Hammer took a perfunctory sip.

"The hell it's not! I give her a little plastic flower from the best mom and pop store that I, in my most humble opinion, could find—"

"Courtship." Hammer grinned.

Nova fumed silently, face burning. "I give her a _little plastic flower,_ " she repeated bitingly, "because I noticed she didn't get any gifts, so on top of that I decided 'hey, we're both marksmen, how's about you and I go out and make Arthas dance the Lindy Hop for a couple hours? Sounds like fun, wouldn't you say?' And why yes, Hammer, she found it very fun. Anybody would find kicking the Lich King's ass fun; no one likes the guy! Not even Leoric!"

"Still a date."

"It's not a date! It's a…a," Nova grabbed her bowl of rice and held it aloft in the air, as if it were some kind of trophy, "a friendly outing!"

"You don't ask the other girls out on these outings. Not even little ole me!" Hammer genuflected dramatically, hand over heart.

"I don't trust you enough to hang out with if nine out of ten times you don't leave your tank. Jaina spends most of her time wandering around helping people or having her nose buried in a book. Valla's always tending to the animals at the stables, and if she's not she's with the Nexus Border Patrol and their Realm Knights on their ranges scouting the Edges and Shadowskirts for demons and Lovecraftian abominations. Johanna preaches at the Church of Light, Doc Morales runs the clinic, Tracer and Brightwing can't keep still for two seconds without something shiny or interesting catching their attention, Sonya helps the League with drilling the minions going through the transition, Tyrande's attached to the hip with Malfurion and Lunara spreading ecopolitics and moonwells wherever they go, and I don't care what Kerrigan does. I mean, some of the girls might want to if they have the time. Li Li definitely would, but half the time I can never seem to find her; she's got that whole wanderlust thing going on. That and she's lucky she's a participant in the League; otherwise she'd be excluded from half the places in the Nexus due to being underage."

"She always will be," said Hammer. "Heroes never stay dead for long and they don't age. 'S all part of our contracts, but I think that's okay. What's one year to the legal age for, say, smoking or drinking? Everybody gets a free pass. But as I was saying: ya need to do something, girl! It ain't even have to be a date. Just, you know, hang out more often. Be persistent. I read somewhere that people in high positions like to be dominated. Who knows, maybe Sylvanas will take a shine to you if you're more assertive."

"Or kill me again," she added a little sullenly. But that in itself wasn't necessarily a bad thing. Not always, Nova told herself. When it concerned matters of the heart, though, then things became a lot more…muddled.

Hammer took a long pull of her drink and set it down on the table. "Ya know, my mama always told me that when a person is being mean to another for no good reason, there's a good chance it usually means they like them because they either they can't work up the courage to admit it, they're embarrassed of how it'll come out, or they're scared—"

"She's none of those things."

"Or she doesn't know any better."

"Li Li said the same thing! The anecdotes, the analogies, the blatant persistence of 'do or die lest the chance slips from your fingertips'…the Nexus is such a small world!"

"Well, yeah. You can't get any more obvious than you already are now." Hammer picked up her own bowl and indulged in the meat and rice.

Nova mulled this over for a bit, tapping the chopsticks against the rim of the dish. "Is…Is it that obvious?"

"Let's put it this way: I could be a traffic controller who's part of a group that's, say, closed off a drawbridge that's in need of repairs. Both decks are drawn. It's my job to redirect the flow of traffic that wants to get on the bridge onto another road so they can continue on their way. They obey. You would blow right through it like something straight of that one scene from _Gunsmith Cats_ , except you're stuck in a time loop blowing yourself up over and over again until you finally realize the error of your ways and follow the rest of the crowd. See, no dying."

"…Huh." She had never thought of it that way. She picked up the chopsticks, scooped up the last of the rice, and popped them in her mouth, nibbled on the tips.

"Yeah. You're trying way too hard. Ease up a little." Hammer dug into the bowl, lowered it, added through a mouthful of food, "A lot." She swallowed. "Ain't gonna make any progress hitting Sylvanas over the head with the proverbial sledgehammer."

"I…I suppose you're right. It wouldn't do to be so clingy. Sylvanas seems to be the type of person who'd like someone who's very…strong, independent. The light to the shadow. The sun to the moon. Or perhaps she'd prefer someone a little more…submissive. She's got that whole Queen shtick going for her; maybe she's got that dominant streak I've heard the noblesse mumble about in the taverns when they think no one's listening." Nova put a hand under her chin. "You know, now that I think about it, that could explain half the deaths I've endured by her hands…."

"Why, Nova, I didn't take you to be that kind o' girl!" Hammer said, grinning. "Tell me more!"

Nova started. "I-I didn't mean it like that!"

"'S okay, girl, we all have our kinks! Come on, I can keep a secret. After all, you know mine! Pretty please?"

"My kinks are chaste!"

"So you say, little ghostie. So you say." Hammer topped it off by sipping her drink.

Nova spent the remainder of their supper in brooding silence, too frustrated to counter her, speaking in short and terse sentences only when Hammer did; and Hammer, damn that Sergeant Hammer, merely looked at her whenever she talked and tried her hardest not to smirk or smile knowingly, but it slipped. They slipped, alright, and Nova was pressed not to go up to her and do something brash, like threatening a beat-down or blackmail her into silence by holding her precious napalm jars hostage by having them held out the window, just waiting to be let go and dropped. The garden would be sacrificed, but if it got the message across….

In the end, Nova forewent the issue.

Later that night, when curfew had come and gone and most of the lights were out (save for those who were pulling all-nighters, studying and cramming as much knowledge as they could for whatever important tests they were about to embark on), Nova lay in bed, body uncovered save for her legs under the sheets. Hammer snored nearby, drowning out the distant hooting of owls and the passage of ion engines and rubber treads in traffic on Highway 20. _The Dinosaur Lords_ lay upended on the nightstand, bookmarked but forgotten; she was not quite in the mood to pick up where she left off.

Instead she let her mind wander.

Somewhere in the dorm, Li-Ming slept, having passed out in bed with several arcane tomes, plastic potion bottles, and white-furred dogs strewn around the bed and floor. She dreamed of blowing up demons with Eirena and Kormac and Lyndon. She dreamed of sharing a drink with them at the inn. She dreamed of Leah and Isendra and felt whole again.

Somewhere, Tracer slept, clutching her pillow, dreaming of Winston and Torbjorn and Reinhardt and crossing guns and bullets with Widowmaker above the streets of King's Row.

Somewhere, Tyrande Windrunner slept, dreaming of her version of Silvermoon, her people the Sin'dorei, and the possibility of trying to get closer to her 'time-lost' relative, Sylvanas.

Somewhere, Jaina slept, all smiles and loose blonde hair, dreaming of books that didn't spontaneously combust during an afternoon read, Garrosh Hellscream actually paying attention to his role as Warchief, and all was right with her version of the world of Azeroth. Everybody got along.

Somewhere, Valla slept in the shack across from the stables, dreaming of long walks on the beach with a pack of puppies, the Greater and Lesser Dogs at her heels, chasing each other, rolling in the sand, and splashing in the shallows. She held the reins of a beautiful white stallion—Tyrael's charger named (what else) Justice—trailing along her footsteps. The sky was clear from a long rainy day, complete with a colorful rainbow. It was paradise, and they were far enough away from civilization where no one and nothing could destroy the stables.

Somewhere, Nova of the Skovos Isles slept, dreaming of home and honing her craft, to the delight of her fans. She hoped to gain Sylvanas's attention and be recognized as an equal marksman. Sooner or later, she would be noticed.

Somewhere, Kate 'Supernova' Dennings slept, dreaming of kicking ass and taking names from anyone and anything, especially if those people happened to be the Banshee Queen of Undercity, the Lich King, the Lord of Terror, and the Hierarch of the Daelaam. Titles and individual power meant nothing to her unless it belonged to her and her alone. One way or another, she would leave her mark upon the Nexus.

Somewhere, the Spectre variant of Nova slept, dreaming of Tosh, of those other peculiar Spectres who supposedly knew her in their variant sectors—Illidan, whose psychic power was so great he could mutate himself into a winged demon out of legend for a few minutes at a time; and Tracer, whose ability to control the flow of her own time was an invaluable asset. She dreamed of home among her unit, of the missions to look forward to, of the smell of cordite coming from the gun she held between her hands.

And somewhere, Sylvanas slept, both the Ranger General and the Banshee Queen. Perhaps they were dreaming of Quel'Thalas before the Fall, or maybe their sisters before the world came crashing down. Perhaps one of them would be accompanied by Doodle, who at this point may as well be officially her pet and adopted, furry child, curled up in bed or on the floor, on his side or on his back with his legs up in the air.

Nova didn't know.

Nova couldn't possibly know what the others were dreaming about or if they were even sleeping at all.

The imagination is a powerful tool. She could be wrong. She could be right. It didn't really matter.

So it was time for Nova to sleep, as she chanced a sidelong glance at the alarm clock and noted it was half past midnight. She could not exactly say she was tired, but lying here on her back, arms spread out across the mattress, the window opened enough for her to feel the cool breeze on her skin, she believed she could afford to believe that sleep would indeed come.

And so it did, as she allowed her eyes to drift closed.

For now, she thought in the back of her mind, her troubles would have to wait another day.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes1:** So it's been a while since I've updated this story, what with how my work schedule is nowadays, and seeing as the next month is going to be all about Christmas and New Year's, I'll been putting in plenty of hours (and getting plenty of moolah) for the next two weeks until I see what the head honchos have me done for afterwards. I worked Thanksgiving, a half-hour just before our big Black Friday sale began, so I was pretty much there for the tail end of peak business traffic. I intend to work on that Black Friday chapter for _First Impressions_ I mentioned in said story, inspired mostly by the...interesting duty the managers gave me and partly by Consort giving me a hook to work with. It's a bit of a long story about my work day, so I'd prefer to save that for a later date.  
 **Notes2:** This chapter marks the beginning of the subplot of the story: the origins of Nova and the effects the transition has on her. Even though Thrall says in FI C29 that it's almost akin to a virus, it's not outright confirmed to be the case. I kind of want the concept of the transition to be ambiguous - whether it is indeed a virus of supernatural/cosmic means or, as FI C26 puts it, an unnatural occurrence that has simply become a part of the Nexus' nature over the course of time. I want these chapters to portray the opposition between pre-transition!Nova and post-transition!Nova, for at the end of the day they may as well be two different characters; and, also, to tie in how these chapters will lead up into the story's endgame.  
 **Notes3:** Given the first chapter's publication date (08/28/2016), this was written well before Nova's Widowmaker skin was revealed (or at least wasn't taken into consideration), so it'd make sense she wouldn't be mentioned at the time. Now? Well, I suppose that remains to be seen. There _is_ one particular scene I have in mind...  
 **Notes4:** I had played with the idea of wanting to add more Starcraft flavor in this chapter, but with my limited knowledge it'd just come off as shoehorned and most likely butchered, so it's been trimmed to hopefully fit in with Impressions!verse!Nova's point of origin between _Wings of Liberty_ and before _Legacy of the Void_.  
 **Notes5:** Alright, quick question before I end this off: Is anyone interested in me making a blog of sorts? Whether or not the answer is provided, I might just go ahead and do it anyway so the notes don't distract and take up too much room on chapters. I had always entertained the idea now and then, as I have a friend and fellow Fanfiction (and original fiction) writer by the name of Obsidian Productions who manages one on Blogspot (called In Darkness Dreaming) when he has the time to do so in between his own busy schedule, but I have never really factored in what exactly I want to do with it. I'm only fielding the question out now so I have an idea as to where to go from there afterwards.

* * *

Something crunched—a firecracker in the deafening stillness that opened a door in her stomach and put her heart in her throat. Nova whirled around and aimed the rifle at the trees.

Nothing stirred save for the leaves on the berry-laden shrubs and the low hanging branches of the willows. The headache-induced banging of a woodpecker assaulted her ears, sharp and fierce as unloading a full clip from a machine gun. She sucked in a breath between clenched teeth, searching with her eyes for the source. Wherever it was, it was too well hidden. She reached with her mind, passing empty thoughts and primitive instincts of alien life, feeling daring, hopeful.

The bird was much too far away to shoot. Another round of tapping began.

Nova released the breath in a great whoop and lowered the rifle. What was there to be so on edge about? Here in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by trees and greenery, there were only the birds and the critters that scampered underfoot. Not a predator lurked in these parts—not on land and, as she tipped her head back and took note of the sun's position in that clear blue sky, certainly not in the air.

It was, for lack of a better word, peaceful. So unlike the thick stink of danger wherever she went, assigned to missions leading her to different worlds within and beyond Dominion territory, where even one slip-up or miscalculation could mean death.

She breathed deep through her nose. The rich earthiness of pine and the sweetness of the willow intermingled with moss and loam burrowed deep in the cracks of the bark. The cleanness of the air bereft of pollution, gunpowder, blood both terran and protoss and zerg. The absolute quiet of the world, uninhabited and yet so full and oh so very wide.

The gravity of such an assessment made her head swim.

No one.

Nothing.

Nova opened her eyes and blinked at the sun beaming down on her.

The woodpecker tapped again— _rata-tata-tata-tata-tata-tata…_

Somewhere, a creature of some sorts made a sound: low and sonorous and whale-like: _oooh-whooooom_. It made the skin underneath her suit thrum and her extremities clench. _Oooh-whooooom. Oh-whoom!_ _Oh-whoom._

She reached out again, and when she was certain she was not lulling herself into a false sense of security she relaxed. She propped the rifle against a tree whose crown was hunchbacked and its branches draped so low they grazed and snaked across the ground. Tiny dots covered the bark, each and every one perfect circles, and when the metal of the weapon caressed the woody surface the dots sprouted even tinier green buds that grew to varying sizes—from that of pins and pennies and nickels and quarters to the biggest being that of a golf ball—and then bloomed into colorful leaves with green and yellow and blue and purple centers. Then they closed and folded upon themselves and shrank back into the bark and repeated the process once more, shedding their petals as they went. Nova stepped back and watched them proliferate, transfixed by the colorful menagerie. An absurd thought sprung unbidden and so suddenly it made her jump: it was almost as though it relied on time. How was it even possible?

She remembered where she was and tore her eyes away from the scene. _Focus_ , she told herself, and checked the connection on the communications device attached to her wrist once more.

 **CONNECTION LOST**

 **UNKNOWN ERROR CODE**

And, replacing that, was a string of numbers:

01010111 01000101 00100111 01010010 01000101 00100000 01010011 01010100 010001001 010001100 010001100 00100000 01001000 01000101 01010010 01000101

She tapped the screen once. Nothing. She tapped it again. Still nothing. A couple more times, and another long line of numbers appeared:

0101011 01000101 00100111 01010010 01000101 00100000 01001110 01001111 01010100 00100000 01000111 01001111 01001001 01001110 01000111 00100000 01000001 01001110 01011001 01010111 01001000 01000101 01010010 01000101

She arched an eyebrow, then raised both as the numbers continued to scroll across the screen. Unable to make sense of them, she scoffed and deactivated the computer. Nova lifted her head to the sun again, noted where it hung. It had to be sometime in the middle afternoon, well past the high hour. A pair of birds flew overhead, announcing their song.

There was still plenty of time to be had. Perhaps there was someplace close by where she could eat, rest, and take stock of the situation. Maybe someone could take a look at the faultiness going on with her suit, explain to her what sustenance she could acquire from those odd trees or what areas teemed with game to hunt, if such things did not require a special license.

Retracing her steps to where she had awoken, miles behind her and many hours away, would only take her back to the ruins. Fallen columns and the skeletons of buildings scoured by weather and time and conquered by nature where the quadruped predators fled into the safety of the shadows at her presence. Ancient tools lying forgotten on the ground or sunk deep into walls that crumbled to dust at the ghost of a touch. A giant, wheel-like object propped up against the remains of what Nova assumed to be a teleportation pad…or a high-tech, post-modern gazebo, weeds threading through the niches and holes in long, tubular ropes whose ending points stood straight in day and curled up in gastropod spirals at twilight. The sheer drop at the edge of the spongy cliff face, plunging sharp and steep into broken blue rocks and sprawling green hillocks overgrown in beds upon beds of wild flowers with giant, cushioned petals, towering mushrooms with caps flat and conical where bioluminescent fungi and car-sized cocoons dangling from their threads (although they seemed so small when looking from so far away), and the outline of a silent city and its skyscrapers subsumed in pearl-white fog. Something slow, black, and _massive_ trudged through the thickness, barely perceptible, moaning dumbly, its footsteps like the dull heartbeat of the world throbbing underneath where she stood, and Nova felt a same dreadful chill overcome her at the memory—a memory of her fumbling with the rifle, her equilibrium recomposing itself before it had the chance to teeter her off the ledge, and then running, running back to the courtyard and failing not to look back.

She could go left or she could go right, but where exactly would it take her? It seemed almost random to go in either direction, as though without a clear purpose in mind.

The only option that remained was going straight. It felt not so much more complacent but more right. More clear. Even if there wasn't an artificial path to be had, wishful as it was, it would be one she would make for herself. Hopefully, there would be civilization waiting for her at the end. The sooner she started moving, the better.

So be it.

She lowered her gaze and set them on the road ahead of her, among the plethora of eyes staring back at her.

Nova yelled, retreating. Her hands flailed blindly for the rifle against the blooming flower-tree, and the sudden jostling caused the buds to burst in mid-bloom, showering her gauntlets with clear, sticky sap. The eyes crinkled and laughed, pupils smiling as the Ghost finally got a firm grip on the gun and fired randomly into the gloomy spaces between. Those spaces shifted, twisted and changed shape as the eyes blinked out one by one, giggling, the sounds of feet scampering and the grass rustling and parting in twain. Then they reappeared, closer to her, and Nova fired shot after shot after shot around her. All of them went wide and blew away chips and foliage. The eyes laughed harder, guffawed even—high and reedy to the point of making her ears ring in accompaniment with the echo of the gunshots, and deep and low to be barely audible and cause the hairs at the back of her nape to stand on end and her blood to flash between hot and cold.

She heard something out of the woods behind her, barely making noise as it landed. Nova spun around to face it, gun raised, and there was a brief glimpse of a pink mouth opened impossibly wide, its upper jaw taking up the majority of its face, a yellow tongue and long, long teeth the size of icicles. There was also the flash of movement in that maw, swirling purple and blue and red and sparkling white like sunshine on snow. It was all she saw before she was bowled over by the dark shape leaping past her. Nova rolled to her feet, ignoring the rifle for the moment, and flipped the magnetically attached pommel from underneath her right gauntlet. The psi blade hummed to life, bathing the immediate surroundings in its soft, monomolecular blue glow.

She gasped. The shapes stood out in stark contrast, like shadows given corporeal form. Some were tall and lean as whips, hunkered down on their haunches with hands like paddles nestled in the grass or talons tapping their curved, knobby knees, cocking their heads and blinking those wide, rainbow-colored, pupil-less eyes. Others were small and squat, resting on their companions' shoulders or on branches, leering down at her with their overly large hands stuffed to their mouths to seemingly try to stem the tide of giggling wracking their frames. Then there were the giants, looming large and thrice the height and width of their smaller brethren, unmoving as statues, their eyes but psychedelic slits that were as narrow and accusing as judgment. From the spaces in between black and brown smoke emerged and embraced them as a cloak and coiled at their feet in bubbling, shimmering, oil slick sheets, vaporous like the fog in her memory yet thick as smoke from wood fire.

Nova took a step back. Then another. A sound—soft, shuffling, sibilant, so quiet as to be on the very edge of hearing—made itself known, dispelling the instantaneous thought she was imagining it when she felt the curious, psychic probing in her mind. She reacted, combed the area, and planted her feet firmly against the ground so as to not turn around and come face to face with the other shadow shapes behind her.

Her eyes flicked past the things towards the woods in front of her. Toward the nonexistent path to salvation. Oblivion.

When she looked back at them, it was to see one of their number standing almost right on top of her. Towering above her by a few feet, thin as a reed and limbs disproportionately long, it cocked its horned head and grinned, a set of fine pointed teeth limned in glittery blue pinpricks. Its tapered eyes were feline, almost cartoonishly large and a peculiar, unnerving shade of pink and yellow.

Nova struck, a swift horizontal slash sweeping across the chest.

The creature caught the psi blade and closed its claws around it. Nova grunted, feeling not just the mental strain its strength was putting on it but at the way it almost yanked her own arm out of its socket as it lifted the weapon away from its face. Its head titled even further, teeth overtaking face, its upswept horns twin pyramidal points on an imaginary crown.

Nova jerked her arm to her. It would not budge. The psi blade hummed loudly, cracks forming along its length. The shadow-thing watched, unblinking, its grin growing even wider. It made a chittering, rodent giggle: "Kikiki!"

She grit teeth, ground them together and hard enough for it to hurt. A quick probe told her the rest of the group remained where they were, also studying…and yet their minds were void. Chaotic as the colors in their gaze and the smoke that appeared to be just as much as part of them as the darkness stretching from the sun. She wished now she hadn't panicked; a mind blast could, maybe (and that damnable word made her kick herself even more), have easily dispatched them. It was taking all she could to keep her fortitude from succumbing to the pain and her body to crumple underneath as it took its toll.

So she stared the thing right in the eye and held its gaze. "If you're going to kill me, then do it!" she grunted. "What are you waiting for? Go on!" She expected it to lunge forth and tear her throat out, break her connection with the blade and rip her apart, call upon the pack behind it and do away with her as they saw fit.

Instead it raised its free hand, closed it around her wrist, and beckoned its head toward its brethren. It tugged at her with a firm but surprising gentleness.

Nova looked between the two, disbelieving. "And if I don't?" she asked it when she looked back.

The shadow-thing let go of her wrist and swept out its arm, indicating the expanse of the forest…and, she considered wildly, perhaps beyond.

Then it closed its hand, stuck its thumb-claw out, and made a slicing motion across its neck.

That decided it. Nova willed the psi blade to deactivation, causing the thing to let go and limply drop its arm to its side. Touching the ground with both feet, she hadn't realized until now it had her hanging in midair, but that thought was come and gone as sheathed the pommel and scrambled for the rifle. Some creatures made to move after her, standing or getting on all fours and feigning lunges, and they cackled at her stumbling and cursing.

Once she had it in her hands, she was off and running into the woods. Their laughter trailed after her in streamers that faded the further she put distance between them. Even the strange, bubbling mass of smoky darkness seemed to have receded. Yet everything was a blur. All she heard were her ragged breaths, her pounding footsteps, and the even harder pounding of her heart against her chest and in her head.

Her lungs were burning when she had willed herself to stop, and the tree she had almost crashed into was the saving grace for her to lean into and catch her breath. She slid down its length until she was on the ground, head thrown back and sucking in precious air. She noted it tasted fresh, clean, not unlike the rotten, gangrenous stink accompanying the shadows, and she breathed in more, grateful to be away from them.

But there was that single thought, lingering like a leech: did they follow her? Perhaps they always had, from the moment she woke up in this strange, empty world. Perhaps they were doing so right now, watching her, taking in her vulnerability.

She forced herself to take a mental sweep of the area, clutching the rifle to her chest like a lifeline. No signs save for insignificant beasts and insects. No predators within range. She eyed the spaces in between the trees and the wildflowers sprouting up from the high, thick grass.

Nothing.

 _Yet they could still be there,_ and a knot formed in the pit of her stomach, recalling the lack of activity in their minds. There was only darkness—malleable, all-consuming, everlasting.

But if they had no intentions of killing her, what would joining them provide?

 _Nothing. Absolutely nothing. What the hell am I thinking?_ With the sweat cooling on her brow and her heart returning to its normal rhythm, Nova pushed herself up into a standing position and observed her surroundings. The trees appeared to be no different than the ones she had abandoned. Was she truly going in the right direction, or…?

She banished the possibility. _No. No, you're fine. You're fine. You just need to find some place, anywhere, really, and lock on a signal. Yes, that's it. I'm far from civilization and I just need a good connection. Even the backwater has to have something. I'll sync up with a satellite and get in touch with Kelerchian._ That was a good start. Kelerchian would get on the _November_ and find her. Maybe she could even make contact with Emperor Arcturus Mengsk; surely he would have been tipped off by now from someone in Nova Squadron that she had gone missing in action and not, hopefully, come to the conclusion she upped and went AWOL. _But why would I do that?_ She touched her fingers to her forehead, right between the eyes where a pulse of its own beat uncomfortably. _What was I doing before all this?_ Trying to dredge up the memories strengthened the pain, and so she let her hand drop and thump against the tree.

 _You'll figure it out. You will, and then you'll be off this rock before you know it. Just…don't get too complacent and everything will work out all right._

For a time she stayed where she was, staring up at the banally blue sky, the sun inching ever slowly and ever closer to the edge of the horizon. The burning in her lungs subsided to a distant ache that would heal with time, the adrenaline washed away in a tide that made her almost feel ritualistically cleansed. A faint breeze, cool and earthy, stirred through the fronds and swept locks of blonde hair over her eyes, to which she tucked behind an ear.

The light from the communications device was on, a blue glare teasing her from her periphery. She lowered her arm and stared at the screen. It reminded her that the connection was still lost, the error code was still unknown, and there were still numbers, although these were much shorter:

01001010 01001111 01001001 01001110

Then, a bigger, longer wall of numbers:

01011001 01001111 01010101 00100000 01010111 01001001 01001100 01001100 00100000 01001110 01000101 01010110 01000101 01010010 00100000 01001101 01000001 01001011 01000101 00100000 01001001 01010100 00100000 01010110 01001000 01010010 01001111 01010101 01000111 010010000 00100000 01010100 01001000 01000101 00100000 01001110 01000101 01011000 01010101 01010011 00100000 01001111 01001110 00100000 01011001 01001111 01010101 01010010 00100000 01001111 01010111 01001110

And finally, repeating _ad nauseam_ in a blinking pattern:

01001010 01001111 01001001 01001110

01001010 01001111 01001001 01001110

01001010 01001111 01001001 01001110

01001010 01001111 01001001 01001110….

Nova watched with a dread that blew up and expanded as a hot air balloon. They kept going and going and going and going, with nary an end in sight.

"Kikiki!"

Her head shot up, but there was nothing there.

Her eyes searched, but nothing stared back.

There was still sunlight slanting through the trees. The shadows were as natural as nature intended them to be. The ground did not froth with darkness.

The numbers kept going. And going. And going—

Then the screen went blank. With a fist wrapped tight around her throat, Nova found the switch for the device. It was off. She turned it on and saw the systems boot up, go through its initial and tertiary processes.

 **CONNECTION LOST**

 **UNKNOWN ERROR CODE**

Nothing else.

The constriction loosened, and her breath came out in a great whoosh. She glanced around, noted the serenity of the forest, the chattering of the birds, the buzzing of the insects, the minute twitching of the grass. The gloom in the spaces between the trees.

She took up the rifle and went around it, locked and loaded. Everything appeared the same.

She did not relax.

 _This place isn't safe,_ said the Ghost part of her. _This place isn't safe at all. Don't let this peace fool you. Trust only yourself and no one else, even if they provide you the help you need._

 _You're fine,_ said the other part of her. The part that, no matter how hard she tried to suppress it, still retained the young foolishness of a time when the mere mention of the Program lurked in the background, Tarsonis had not yet fallen, and the Old Families were still largely prevalent. When the Terra family was still prevalent. _Just calm down. You can do this. If they try to hurt you, you hurt them right back. You're a soldier now. Maybe they caught you off guard this time, but next time will be different. You'll be ready. Just. Calm. Down._

"I'll be fine," she mumbled, and forced herself to lower the gun. Forced herself to straighten up, loosen the tension, and breathe. The woods stretched out before her, willows draping in melancholy and pines standing erect and proud. The whale-like call heralded again: _Ooooh-whoooom! Oooooh-whoooom!_

She sucked in a breath and let it out in a slow, steady stream. "I'll be fine," she said again, more loudly and sure. "I'm Agent X41822N of the Terran Dominion and no one else. The best of the best. Terran, zerg, protoss, or even a shadow—no one's going to touch me, and they'll be damned if they try."

She couldn't help but let a small smile slip out. _Yes. That's more like it. You'll do just fine, Nova. Just fine._

At ease but still on alert, Nova held her rifle close, the psi blade pommel close at hand, and set off deeper into the woods.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes1:** What was supposed to be a single scene that I wanted to be a few hundred words, maybe one thousand at most, turned out to be...this. There was going to be more, too, but adding onto this would've dragged and instilled fatigue, and fatigue is the last thing I want to subject to a chapter or a story as a whole.  
 **Notes2:** Funny thing I came to the realization about this story yesterday: Originally, this started off as an idea for Sylvanas/Nova drabbles (as if _First Impressions_ doesn't have enough of that). Then it turned into an idea where it'd be a series of drabbles with Sylvanas having a harem with all the Blizzard girls that were currently out. As I mentioned in _First Impressions_ Chapter 32, Tracer was also to be included as part of them, but with the release of the Reflections Overwatch comic that has since been taken into consideration and thus she is no longer part of that. So somewhere along the line (recently, actually) I wanted to play up the idea of how a crack pairing (which, come on, Sylvanas/Nova is) could be made plausible in a world that has an in-universe explanation for OOC.  
 **Notes3:** Which brings me to the next point: If we were to include all Heroes up to this point now (January 2017, having Zul'jin and Valeera), this story and all future installments would never end. I've taken to perusing the hero release date list off the HotS Gamepedia page and have placed this story after Tracer's debut in the Nexus, which would be in late April/early May 2016, post _First Impressions_ Chapters 15-16. The same will be applied to the hero skin release date list, although while I do have the ending already in mind I don't suspect there will be a significant time skip to occur (a year's jump is not happening).

* * *

Nova awoke, not with a gasp or with a start, to a room plunged in darkness. Panic gripped her heart, sending a cold jolt through her veins like a drug. She spied the shadows of the trees scraping their way through the walls, the furniture, the ghosts of leaves wavering on the floor, and wondered, in that instant, if she was back _there_.

Then her eyes adjusted and saw that the furniture homely and Spartan, not cold and sterile like the armature. The trees belonged outside the dormitory in a patch of flourishing weeds, not in the wilderness of boondocks and fallen kingdoms. The shadows were black and conforming fluidity and stretched over the walls, not filled with rainbow-colored eyes and knives for teeth crammed in bodies of varying shapes.

She exhaled a breath she hadn't realized she was holding. From her place in bed, on her stomach and one side of her face buried in the pillow, she looked to the other side of the room. Hammer was in bed, sheets tossed to the floor except for one barely covering her front, a leg and an arm draped over the side of the bed. Her mouth was wide open and she snored like a goose with a whistle lodged in its throat.

She glanced at the alarm clock and groaned inwardly. Not even a quarter past one in the morning. Dawn would not be for another few hours.

Nova stared at it, then flicked her gaze up to where Hammer lay, mumbling incoherently under her breath. She listened to her heartbeat, lay still as it settled and the adrenaline wore off. She closed her eyes and pressed her face deeper into the pillow, forced her body to relax.

Moments passed, but sleep did not come and soon she found her limbs tingling with restlessness. Huffing loudly, Nova pushed up into a sitting position, threw off the sheets and swung her legs off the side of the bed. She got up, stretched, and blinked the lethargy from them. A cool gust crept into the room and caressed her bare back. Nova hissed and rubbed her arms, feeling foolish for thinking it was a good night to keep the window opened. She considered opening the closet and pulling on a robe, but she had no intentions of waking up Hammer; the sound of the door sliding on the rail would probably come off as a ballistic missile, and how would she explain herself then?

Nova made a low, disgruntled noise in the back of her throat. A thin, long-sleeved button-up was draped over the chair of the desk. She snatched it and yanked it on as she stole into the kitchen. The floor was ice on her feet, but she continued unabated. She opened the refrigerator door and bent down a little to peer inside, squinting at the brightness that came to greet her. There were the usual amenities: fruits and vegetables in Tupperware, a tub of butter and bottles of sour cream and soy sauce and sriracha, a whole six-pack of Ulolan's Pale Ale, box shelves filled with packaged grocery store hot dogs and lunch meats and cheeses. She clicked her tongue at the quart of milk tucked all the way in the back and tried not to grumble as she inched the hot sauces aside and took it out. She made a note to rearrange the chaos and take stock of what needed to be replaced and what needed to thrown out later today.

A quick uncapping and a sniff told her it was still fresh. Nova set the quart on the counter, drew a glass from the cupboard, poured the milk, and set it to warm in the microwave. When it was done, she took a perfunctory sip and sat down at the kotatsu. It radiated between her hands like a miniature sun.

She stared down into its pearly deaths, allowing her mind, her awareness, to stretch and roam from the immediacy of her surroundings: the comfort of the kotatsu's thick blankets, the coolness of the tiled floor biting and then ebbing away from her knees, the heat of the glass dimming to a lone, isolated star. The thrum of distant traffic pervaded like the breathing of some otherworldly beast in hibernation deep beneath the earth, interspersed with the sullen strains of what she thought was an owl hooting.

The ghost of the hand running through her hair. _You're a good girl._

The grins that stretched their faces and pulled the flesh taut, crinkling the crow's feet around their eyes like paper. _Look at how you've grown._

 _We're so proud._

Something— _A branch_ , she reminded herself, _It's just a branch_ —scraped along the wall outside, a quick, harsh brushing. Leaves scattered from their perch and fell, unseen; some slapped the window only to be blown away by the gust. The frame rattled slightly. Nova looked up, and when she regarded the window she realized the shaft of moonlight had vanished. Somewhere behind the trees, she assumed it had become hidden by a scrim of clouds.

She remembered the glass. She looked at it, felt how cool it had gotten. She considered reheating it in the micro and decided against it. She sipped again, closed her eyes to savor it. It was fine; just fine. Nova pushed up with her hand on the floor and got to her feet. The floor was not so cold now and neither was the room. The thermostat next to the threshold read sixty degrees and dropping.

Nova padded back into the room, took the phone off the charger and opened the Nexus Realm Weather Network app. Eyes adjusting to the brightness, she skimmed the five-day forecast for the Shire-by-the-Rocks. A storm system was on the way. The radar showed a large dark green mass laced in yellow and red engulfing the better part of King's Crest, approaching the Deeps and the Wend from the west. Down the page was a list of weather alerts: a coastal flood warning for the Deeps, a flash flood warning for the greater and lesser Wend area, a severe thunderstorm watch for the Shire, a tornado watch for Echo Town and Dracoban….

Nova sighed and returned the phone to the charger. When she looked to the open window, the moonlight had returned and the wind a matronly caress. She came up to the sill. On one hand, it would make sense to close it so that when it did rain it wouldn't come in and wet the wall or even soak the floor. On the other hand, the rain would not be for a few more hours, but leaving it open would risk irritating Hammer and come under the assault of a number of questions as to why she didn't think to close it when she was up and still alert.

Her brow crinkled. She set the glass off to the side on the sill and lay her arms crossed, one on top of the other next to it. She leaned her weight against them and peered out into the night.

Long, gold strands fell over her shoulder into the dip between breast and elbow, sending a little shock through her system. She had forgotten she had let it down as she was undressing for bed. She raised but did not remove the arm from its place and studied the way it spilled away from her skin—a beat of elysalark pinions in motion, Marlowese vin jaune being poured from the neck of a mafioso's gilded flask, the lifeline of some genius loci bleeding up from within deep-seated, membranous arteries. She could go on and on with such descriptions, regardless of minimalism and flowery hyperbole. Here, standing in the weak light protruding through the gauzy film of altostratus translucidus, it was drained of color, of life, and become a silvery-pale blue akin to water. The milk was a pearlescent disc, perhaps, she tacked on, a second moon pulled down from the sky and condescended into ideas, equations, and given form.

She snorted softly. She hadn't intended to go off on a mental tangent, but the mind was a curious thing. Every little thought and action a person was wont to do was contained therein and elucidated by the brain housed between their ears and a personality chip in their chassis. Some would say that because of this the soul existed there (or what constituted as a brain for non-humanoids). Others would say the soul existed in the heart, for even when the brain was dead the heart still beat in its body before succumbing to death.

Then again, this _was_ the Nexus, where ninety-nine-point-nine percent of the population was transitioned and afflicted with ageless, resurrective immortality and half of that with an incredibly slow aging process, and those that did die of old age or plagues or some early death decided for some reason to opt out of resurrection and remained in either their ancestral underworlds or in the Underworlds themselves that were constructed through physical labor underneath the realms or in pocket dimensions between Anchors. There they spent their afterlives—the _in-between_ , they so proudly called it—doing the same thing living mortals did…only as ghosts or rock clusters or computer data jammed in a disused body.

— _just like yours—_

She blinked rapidly.

Ah, she was doing it again. Random thoughts with little coherence and very little meaning. Surreal conundrums given birth in the wake of silent monotony.

The mind is a creature that is very wide and travels very, very far. It knows no limit save for the ones it imposes upon itself. Morality, rationality, preferences—

 _What shall we do with this one?_

She bit the inside of her cheek. It felt good.

No more thoughts. Breathe. Relax.

So she did. Nova shook her head full of hair, relishing the feel of it rustling over her shoulders and brushing against her neck. She leaned back in and breathed in the air, the scent of the ivy and dandelions tickling her nostrils. She sneezed, a quick, quiet blast that under normal circumstances would have been loud enough to warrant several glances from bewildered pedestrians. She sniffed. Yes, those weeds would have to go, and very shortly. The weather was nice enough to get some weeding done and, hoping against hope it wasn't too late now with summer on the way, sew some flowers or crop and buy a bulk of Gazlowe's Insta-Gro Liquid Plant Food ("MIRACLES ABSOLUTELY GUARANTEED, NO MONEY BACK") to continuously grow and harvest instead waiting a few months like a normal person outside the Nexus would do.

Would Hammer like some perennials, to bring out some color? Would she prefer something to stock their pantry, such as corn or peppers or maybe broccoli? There were plenty of tomatoes and carrots leftover, but those would eventually soften with time. There was also the fact that even though Gazlowe's plant food promised an 'absolute miracle', the results always…varied. Either they came up a decent size in a few hours…or blew up so quickly it brought down a good chunk of the wall on the surface and the foundation of stone and earth underneath.

Those particular instances could have been…handled better.

Decisions, decisions…so many things to do.

Oh well. She'd rather prefer smelling homegrown vegetables to napalm, oil, and antifreeze any day. They did not leave such a nice aftertaste when indulging in good eats and comfort.

There was not much to see outside of the security lights interspersed here and there on the other side of the building, and from this angle Nova could only see the trees crowding close to the building in their rocky enclosure some feet away. Room #16 was situated away from the thoroughfare where foot traffic was light. This particular area was for students who had to make phone calls, do their homework when the weather was fair, or light up a joint when they sensed Hammer wasn't hitting the napalm too hard Nova was surprised at the lack of complaints coming in from the Headmaster's office or even a letter or email indicating to dial back on the concoctions in the chemistry shacks located away from the premises, but, being they were Heroes who could instantly summon monsters with a spell or call down a siege tank with a press of a button the backlash died down very quietly and very suddenly. For everyone's sake (and to spare the Board another headache), it was for the best, and on the plus side the few times something did go awry with the jars the damage was usually repaired as soon as possible. Nova was always reminded of the high-end metropolitan parks featured in tourist guides showcasing the sights and sounds of the specified region of interest, with its well-lit slate walkways, watered lawns, stone and iron-backed wooden benches.

She turned her gaze ahead of her, where transportation went heard but unseen through the night. Nova wondered who was in control of those vehicles, how many people there were, where they were going. Perhaps it was a…remnant of her old life, determining numbers at keenly honed precision and possible scenarios, but what had once left her feeling cold and aware of the power she held now put her at ease. A childlike curiosity rousing from a deep slumber that had to clear away the stubborn, rooted

— _ignorance—_

bleariness nesting inside her for years. Normally it would be difficult for someone like her with high psychic caliber to ignore the constant reaching, but in moments such as these she did not mind. It gave her a broader picture of what the world looked like beyond Highway 20, beyond the horizon, beyond King's Crest, covered in equal shades of moon-glow and darkness

— _where the shadows walk as men walk and smile sickles sickly-sweet—_

She stopped herself from going any further, almost doubled over on the windowsill.

No.

No, no, no. None of that. None of that. Those...those things were far and away from here. That's what the Shadowskirts were for. That's why the Nexus had the NIB, the Border Patrol, the Realm Knights, the monks and psijics in the Starless Depths.

That's what Heroes were for.

Her shoulders trembled with the ache of scathing laughter. She dug her nails into her closed fists and relished the bite they provided her nerves with. Only a person willing to go that far beyond civilization, into the empty, lonely wilds, would dare stand toe to toe against a darkling. Only someone foolish, someone brave, would want to challenge a gloomblot, an aether wraith, or even a stormbringer.

 _Why am I thinking this?_

 _Why are you even thinking this?_

Nova snatched the glass, drained it to its last drops, set it down hard enough for it to clack. The beer…she should have grabbed the beer instead of being a good girl and go for something simple, something safe. At least she could

 _wipe it clean as the mind wipes do_

forget the frustrations, the philosophical waxing, the

 _memories_

confusion.

Grunts like her wouldn't stand a chance. She had long since come to that conclusion, and tonight was no different. Not all the psychic power in the Nexus would be of much use.

But years of experience, centuries, on the field, their hands stained red and black and their weapons notched and rusted…now that was something that could keep the darklings on their feet. For what use did godlike might have if they did not have the mindset, the strategic ability, the mastery of the martial and arcane arts to give them the necessary advantage? And even then, would it be more than enough, compared to the millennia, the unfathomable aeons, the darklings had?

Her mind turned toward Sylvanas. It relaxed the pressure building in her head, chased the memories away like a Good Samaritan would to a pack of wild dogs. Of course she could handle whatever the Realm of Shadows threw past the Anchors. She was a Ranger-General in life and fought in the Troll Wars some hundreds, maybe thousands, of years ago. She had been forcibly raised to undeath and forced out the Scourge from the ruins of Lordaeron with its denizens breaking free from the Lich King's yoke. She had survived her suicide attempt at the Frozen Throne, made the pact with val'kyr to create more Forsaken, and was brought back again after taking Lord Godfrey's gunshot to the head.

She was so much harder, so much tougher, than what Nova could scarce imagine what she herself had gone through. Cruelty, detachment,

 _Insanity_

Perhaps that was what needed to push back the Darkness.

Nova stared into the dark.

 _Why are you thinking this?_ the other her, the Other-Nova, asked.

 _A better question would be 'why do you always turn to her'?_ the Ghost-self asked her. _What do you even see in her? Look at her._

She did, picturing her as she always saw the Banshee Queen in her mind and in her waking moments. The pale blue skin of a body bereft of its temperature. The unnatural red eyes that only glowed when the day was darkening to night. The scar across her face from where Johanna's Light-blessed shield had struck her the day she had arrived in King's Crest, claiming to be in search of an apprentice. The head of pale hair drained of its color and strength.

The coldness in her gaze when they locked eyes and the feeling she had been burned. The hardening of that patrician face when she

 _Not you_

Said something silly and genuflecting affection or tried to be bold, such as touching her hands or wrapping an arm around her shoulders.

 _Yes, and look at how that turned out,_ the Other-Nova said.

 _It's not you that wants her,_ the Ghost pressed on. _Even if it was you, what do you hope to gain from it? Remember all the pain she gave you because of that. Remember all the times it made you want to get closer and all the times she responded with murder and manslaughter._

 _But what about—_

 _Valentine's Day? Get real. It was a one-off thing. You know how much she loathes Arthas; anyone spurned by him would do the same thing. And what did she do the next day? It was back to square one: treat you like a lowly peasant, brush off your advances and kind words like gnats to cooked meat._

 _She's undead—_

 _That's an excuse. Look at her living counterpart and see how recalcitrant she is toward you. You are looking at a reflection of an alternative that cannot be realized in the now or in the future. Such feelings are beyond her. Such feelings are beyond the Darkness. These feelings serve only to make you weak, and they will exploit that._

Nova blinked. Her fingers tapped an irregular rhythm against the sill.

 _As you are now, you're not fit to fight the Darkness._

 _As you are now, you're not fit to earn neither the Banshee Queen nor the Ranger-General's favor._

 _As you are now—_

Nova huffed and pushed off her arms, straightening her posture. She grabbed the glass and regarded it as though she was seeing it for the first time, turning it this way and that. She peered inside. There was nothing left of the milk. She believed she could see through the aether, into the Storm, and view the Anchors keeping the realms aloft. She believed if she could focus all her concentration on a singular point, she could peer into the minds of all the people—the peasants, the middle class, the noblesse, the minions, the Heroes, the Board, and the Powers That Be—and know their waking, dreaming thought.

 _It's certainly not about you, if you're so curious,_ said the Ghost.

 _You don't know that,_ said the Other-Nova.

 _But she's not, and neither will you she. Let it go._

She scowled. Who was to say there were classified, documented cases of Ghosts or people high on the psionic scale being able to interpret the dreams others were having?

 _The Dominion has more pressing matters to worry about than trying to decipher overly imaginative worlds rife in symbolism. Get some sleep. You have things to do, and weeding won't be one of them._

"Don't tell me what to do," grumbled went into the kitchenette, rinsed the glass, and set it upside-down in the dish rack to she returned, she glanced at the alarm clock. Only a half hour had passed. The night still felt so long and so young.

She looked at Hammer, who was more or less hanging off the side of the bed. With a weary sigh, she walked up to the window and listened to the panels creaking as it slid shut beneath her hands.

The clouds were gliding in toward the moon, its furled tips reaching up and over to capture it in their grasp. Nova shivered and pulled the shirt closer to her. Very little warmth was going to be had just standing here in the weakening moonlight, and come morning the rains would be well under way. It was far too late in the season for the heating systems to kick into gear.

Better yet, there was nothing else to do at this hour. Oh, there was _The Dinosaur Lords_ , but Nova had forgotten what the chapter was even about, so lost in her own world that she was, so it would have to be reread again. She could watch TV, but the light coming from it was _bright_ when turned on; Hammer would snap awake and loudly proclaim she had gone blind or ask who set off a nuke without her permission. What would even be playing on at this hour other than infomercials, cable network shows dating back to the 15000's, children's programs (and what kid in their right mind was going to learn their letters and numbers this late?), and prerecorded religious sermons? On top of all the channel packages that came from tele-and-HoloVision media service providers, such as dramas and cringe-worthy…adult entertainment in all their uncensored glory….

Nova ceased that train of thought. She wasn't much in the mood for TV or reading with the LED flashlight or browsing the internet on the mobile phone.

She faced the empty bed, chewing her bottom lip.

In her mind, the darklings stared back. Some were grinning, eyes wide and flickering epileptically. Some craned what little necks they had to look at her; others peered down impassively from their impressive height, eyes emotionless and faces expressionless, nonexistent. The tall one, the skinshade, beckoned her forward with the tilt of its head, and the sun refrained from touching its grinning shark's teeth.

 _Not even the hope of permanent death will grant you celerity from their machinations,_ said the Ghost. _So long as I remain, they will never have you. Sleep now. You will not dream of them._

 _Easy for you to say,_ she told her, and crept onto the mattress even as the Other-Nova pleaded for her to stay awake, go anywhere but there, do something. She pulled off the shirt, tossed it onto the chair (it landed on the seat and didn't care when it slid off onto the floor) and tried to make herself comfortable. She ended up on her back, arms spread-eagled and hair fanned out on the pillow, no different than when she had turned in before.

She had made it an exercise almost every night to come up with possible scenarios friends and strangers were having. Sometimes it would take but the brief closure of eyes, and when she opened them again the room would be brightening with dawn light or snow or darkening with approaching rain.

It was always about them, never her. She knew how her dreams played out: memories of the past before the Nexus, memories of the darklings, memories of alien landscapes and ruins soaked in sun and corruption and the dust of ages. Surreal pictographs on a slideshow, nonsense jumbles of mundane events in which the flow of time was sundered and hastily scrambled back together. Flashes of peculiarity in the form of animals, other people, aliens, disembodied observers that, once in a while, gave her full control of her dreams.

Sometimes they were about the girls: Jaina with her ice magic and elemental as they perused the Grand Nexus Library; Valla with her shadow beasts and all the beasts and constructs in the stables; Li-Ming with the Greater Dog and his pack as they blew up another part of the Shire with might and magic; Hammer fixing the vehicles and Brightwing making mischief and (so she claimed) justified self-defense; Li Li brewing tea with Chen and Tyrande roaming the forests with Malfurion at her side; Sonya training newly transitioned minions and young upstarts eager for a challenge to test their mettle in the League or against the Darkness or to uphold family tradition while Lunara jabbed them with her spear if they made a mistake and offered passive-aggressive comments on their postures, the way they were holding their weapons, the number of ways she could slip her spear between their armored limbs and pierce the softer, weaker mail underneath.

Sometimes she dreamed of Sylvanas, sulking as always. In some dreams she was with Doodle, taking him for walks or rubbing his belly while frowning more severely than usual. In others she killed her in all sorts of manners: punting her off a cliff, snapping her neck, shooting an arrow between the eyes, ramming her dagger in her neck; and when Nova came back from the Hall no worse for wear and resumed whatever endeavor she had set out to do, Sylvanas would find another way to undermine her efforts. Once in a while Kerrigan would butt in, making those stupid, snide remarks about ghosts unable to impress even a banshee or the Nexus having only room for one (self-proclaimed, but Nova would never say it to Sylvanas' face) Queen. Now and then there would be a dream where she would catch Sylvanas off guard and kill her, with the psionic energy pulsing between her wings or having Torra the ultralisk run her over and proceed to trample over her twice-dead corpse to the tune of 'Riverdance' playing out of nowhere for good measure. There were also instances where Sylvanas would pull off her face as though it was a mask to reveal Kerrigan's smug exterior underneath, and nine out of ten times the revelation shocked Nova to wakefulness (although the one time she did sock Kerrigan left her feeling immodestly satisfied).

Yet once in a while, very few and far between, she would dream of the two of them. These did not seem to have any underlying rhyme or meaning to them, not when the majority consisted of them either seated or standing somewhere in King's Crest or Luxoria or the Empirical Crossroads where one could travel to either the pockets of the High Heavens or the Burning Hells—on a hill crowned in flowers, on a sheer cliff overlooking the myriad cities and towns sprawling across the horizon, on the sediment-encrusted swells diving grassy bank and silver sands vanishing into the sea.

In every one of them, Nova could not see her face.

In every one of them, she could not read her thoughts.

 _Why is that? Is it because they're products of my imagination that I can't reach out to her? Would that even be possible to do while asleep?_

 _Maybe it's for the best you don't,_ said Other-Nova. _You only think about what she could be thinking of, and for all you know it could be about home. Her people. Maybe even the war on Draenor._

Nova shifted. _Maybe._ Still, her mind drifted. No matter how much the Other tried to suppress it, she still remembered the first year she had spent in the Nexus, adjusting to the transition, keeping to herself, the days spent wandering within the Shire's boundaries before she forced herself to go deeper and further abroad. The nights, just like this night, where she awoke from those dreams and could not go back to sleep until her eyes stung for rest and the Other and the Ghost turned her away from these redundant thoughts.

She still remembered the day she met Sylvanas: pulled from Azeroth, the transition settling into her brain, the tension threatening to overspill from her body like a dam.

Something in her chest tightened.

 _It's not you,_ the Ghost reminded her. _It never was you._

 _Except it's still a part of me._

 _For now._

Nova glared at the ceiling. _You don't know that. Many people have disappeared from the realms for a time only to return just as transitioned as they were before._ If not more so.

 _The transition has ruled the realms for eons. It may as well be the circle of life. But you and I, we're Heroes. Outsiders._

 _So are the Riftwalkers._

 _Yes, but you were chosen by the Powers. They were not. And aside from a few major differences, there is one thing we have in common: the minute the Powers get bored of their interdimensional game and find something else to keep the economy booming and the realm coffers full, They will be rid of us. We will forget, and the people will be none the wiser than they already are._

 _How would you—_

 _It's guaranteed to happen. The world will move on, and so will we. Just accept it._ Then it receded, and both her mind and the room were fraught with a silence quickly becoming too calm and suffocating to bear.

 _I'm not finished!_ Nova called out to the Ghost. She did not respond.

 _You don't know what you're talking about!_ She did not respond.

 _I do care!_ Still she did not respond. Nova clenched her fists. _Just because things didn't work out with Tosh doesn't mean—!_

 _Let it be,_ the Other said, gently. _You'll only serve to run yourself ragged by arguing._ Then she, too, went silent.

Nova didn't bother to stop her.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes1:** So, uh, surprise...?! Happy birthday?! I told you I'd get this updated (after how many times I've said it and for how long)!? And my, did it turn into a big one, didn't it? I had half this document, up until the third and final scene, sitting on my USB for about a few months. I won't make excuses other than work, other writings, and general procrastination interfered with its progression, because that's how things go and have been going for almost a couple years now, having since finally achieved some sense of routine and balance IRL. But, needless to say, I decided that something needed to be done with this chapter, so I spent the rest of this week working on it.  
 **Notes2:** I can't really say for sure how long this will be, other than I can see it split into two arcs: the usual silliness laced with drama being one, and non-stop action/drama in the other. If you've read _First Impressions_ , you'll have had an idea by now how this story ends, but the most important thing is to understand what culminated following the events of Chapters 15-16 and how it got to the point that it did in the main story. This takes place after Tracer's introduction into the Nexus, meaning April 2016 as a reference point (and not an _in-universe point_ , as the main story currently takes place in the 33-34th Millennium, and I don't mean in the WH40K sense), so that means no Widowmaker!Nova or any skins/variants that show up afterwards, unless I can scrounge up a list of release dates based around said skins. If anything, only Chromie will be showing up; as my personal headcanon, Medivh and Gul'dan appear post-HDTEW in future _First Impressions_ chapters (Chapter 21 for Medivh).  
 **Notes3:** Reading over this chapter now, it's very awkward to see Sylvanas and Alleria together and not think of the positions they are in now in _World of Warcraft_ , at the time of this writing. Ah, the joys of not updating a story in so long!

* * *

Sylvanas peered around the trunk of the tree, holding her breath. Alleria did the same, but she didn't need to rely on her periphery to know she was giving her that sideways look again, the one that said this was just like hide and seek, except you weren't supposed to peek out of your hiding place to see if the seeker was several feet away. Sylvanas turned her head fully toward her and, yep, there it was—that stupid, laughing grin and those stupid, laughing eyes. She gave her a reproachful glare and receded back beneath the eaves, shaking her head, ignoring the silent shaking of her sister's shoulders.

When she settled down, Sylvanas twisted around again and eyed their quarry: a herd of deer, white-tailed and spotted, grazing on grass and the leaves of low-hanging branches. A couple fawns lingered at their mother's side, meandering on knobby knees and stick-thin legs. Off to the side and away from them where he could see, a buck rested with hooves tucked under his broad chest. His antlers were large and ashy brown, and the base of the tree sported several gashes from where the smaller horns tapped against it. His head rotated like clockwork, jerking this way or that way, ears twitching and flapping now and again.

His tail did not move.

Sylvanas checked her bow, more out of habit than out of reassurance, to see if the arrow was knocked. It was: steel arrowhead, silver-lined woodwork carved, melted, and cooled from the Windrunner Village lumber yards and forges. Each arrow had an etching of the wind, straight and true, along the shaft, not so much the family crest as it was a testament to their marksmanship. She ran a finger down its length, felt the grain on her skin, the craftsmanship, the history of many an elf's accomplishments both past, present, and future engraved therein.

On this day, at this hour, it would serve her well. She would not want for another.

She pointed at the buck, back at herself, and put her finger to her lips. Alleria nodded, pointed at Sylvanas, pointed at herself and followed it up with a flat, upright hand: _wait_. Sylvanas nodded and slunk into the bushes, minding her step. She paused between a pair of overgrown shrubs flourishing with white, wildflowers and, slowly, moved some of the foliage aside. Ridiculous, she knew, when she had just looked, but the buck was still there, head rotating to his left and to his right, ears flicking away the errant fly trying to getting too close. She stayed for a minute, then two, then three, watching him; and for each pass he made and his gaze would cover their spot her heart crept higher and higher up her throat into her mouth, her breath locked in a vault.

If its gaze was like the chill of winter, then Alleria's was the balm of summer: warm and on her back, but not uncomfortable. She, too, waited with bated breath, Thas'dorah held at ease, fingers on the drawstring.

Sylvanas released her own breath, let go of the bush, and grabbed her bow. She watched the buck do another spot-check and look off to the right, on her left, where a fawn galloped over and brushed noses with him. He looked away.

Life for life, life for death.

She sucked in air and shot up out of cover. Pulled back the string and let the arrow fly. It whistled through the air.

Buck, fawn, and deer started into motion, bleating alarm and leaping into the brush.

It struck the tree, barely grazing the buck's backside. Sylvanas swore under her breath. She reached for another arrow.

One flew right past her, taking strands of blond hair in its wake. Several yards away, just as it was running out of sight, the buck jerked, as though being yanked by an invisible leash. It moaned and crashed to the earth. His herd plunged deeper into the forest, unheeded, the sounds of their retreat fading.

Sylvanas sagged, adrenaline flowing out of her body like an opened valve, and glared at Alleria—at her triumphant, girlish grin lighting her face. "Was that really necessary?"

"If I'd waited any longer, he'd have gotten away."

"I don't think you'd want to have an elf for dinner, but considering how this close I was to becoming part of the meal…."

Alleria laughed and ruffled her hair so hard her ears flattened. "I would never hurt my baby sister…and most certainly would not eat her! I'd much rather have chicken to go with my venison; contrasting tastes can sometimes go well together."

"Not if they don't please your palette," Sylvanas groused, and gently removed the hand from her head. "Why bother trying something new when you know about it and are aware you won't like it?"

"Knowing you won't like something and trying it and then not liking it are two different things, little moon. You mustn't always live blissfully in ignorance nor should you turn a blind eye to it. You should at least give it three chances: one for first impressions, one for further study, and one for drawing conclusions." Alleria replaced Thas'dorah back in its sling. "Come on. let's go see how big our furry fellow is."

They plodded over to where the buck had fallen and found him in a patch of grass sprinkled in blood where the arrow had struck true. His legs were crisscrossed together and his mouth hung open, tongue lolling out of the side in a morbidly comic display of defeat. All it was missing, Sylvanas thought, were a pair of X's in place of his eyes, and it resemble those silly caricatures she'd see in the papers every now and then.

Alleria whistled appreciatively. "My, he's big! That's enough meat on him to last us weeks!"

"I'm surprised a single arrow did the job," said Sylvanas. "Look how thick that hide is. This will sell for a pretty copper."

"We'll get to that," said Alleria. "Go back to camp and fetch the tools. I'll stay here to make sure this guy doesn't attract anything, although I doubt there will be."

"It'll be more meat and skins for us, at least," Sylvanas called back over her shoulder, upon departure. She could just picture that grin lighting up the mirth and mischief in her eyes, the kind that would drive men into a competitive frenzy and aspired women to be just like her and gain her attention. She was so easy to please, almost like a child, and it made her laugh, and hearing that laugh now ringing clear across the forest brought forth a surge of love and fierce protectiveness rise up from her chest and encompass her whole being. It galvanized her to forego the long, monotonous stretch of the task that would come and press onward.

She came back a short time later with their kit, and for the next couple hours they set about dressing the buck. They had removed their gauntlets, and by the time they had him gutted and his internal organs disposed of. He was strung up on a tree by a makeshift pole, and after a bit of meandering they had found the water to douse him in to cure the meat within.

Then they began the process: skinning, quartering, and cutting any meat, cooling it with water and wrapped in packages to be preserved. Even with their pair of gloves, their arms were covered up to the elbows in blood and other foul-smelling, bodily liquids that had to be washed off.

Time passed. The sun slowly came down from its high perch.

They had left what remained of the buck they could not carve from behind for nature to take care of, and retraced their steps back where they had come to a spring they had passed on their trek. They bathed, and the coolness of the water on top of the warmth of the sun on her bare skin caused Sylvanas, reclining in the basin, to drop her head to her breastbone and sink into a light doze. There in the dark of her mind, removed from the world, she dreamed of the feast they would bring back, the money (however slight it was) they would bring from selling the pelt (to the finest ranger who deserved such a reward, even if, in her opinion, it should go to Alleria, but bias had no place in the Farstriders nor under her command), the fireworks that would soon herald the end of the Midsummer's Fire Festival. She imagined sitting shoulder to shoulder with Alleria, who stood half a head taller, with Vereesa on her other side, basked in the glow of the explosives and the alchemical fire burning in their lamps as they watched them burst and fizzle out over the bay in red-gold-blue showers. She would have her head on one shoulder and Vereesa on the other, relishing the warmth of her skin (and Sylvanas would have her cheek pressed against that knob where blue, slash-mark tattoos on her right arm began, to remind herself of the sea that stretched before them and away over the horizon), perhaps one or the both of them trying to stay awake long enough to see the finale.

A splash of water roused her to wakefulness. Smacking her lips and blinking stupidly, Sylvanas snorted and looked up…and up, taking in Alleria's naked body, all muscle and tattoos and freely flowing blonde hair. She stopped, and the water rippled around her. "Ah, sorry, Sylvanas. I didn't wake you, did I?"

"…I fell asleep?" Her mind was still a fog.

"Just for a few minutes."

Sylvanas gazed back at her reflection. "Huh. I thought I was still awake. I went from here to the end of the month in…how long was I out for?"

Alleria grinned. "A half hour."

"Yeah, let's go with that." Sylvanas shook her head, shaking off sleep's weakening grip completely. "I felt like I just went back in time instead of forward. It doesn't make any sense."

"Dreams aren't supposed to. Not always. Was it at least a nice dream?"

Sylvanas mulled it over, then looked back up at Alleria. There was a small smile on her lips, sweet and sisterly, and it made Sylvanas smile back. "Yeah. It was. You were in it."

"Oh? What did I do?"

Now Sylvanas grinned. "You ate my chocolates in the pantry and ended up turning in a big, fat hawkstrider. You made the most raucous squawks."

Alleria tossed her head back and bellowed laughter, clutching her stomach. "Yeah, and I bet you served me on the table for Pilgrim's Bounty with all the bush chicken gravy and stuffing you could want!"

"Close enough. It was cranberry sauce."

"You're so mean!" she exclaimed, but it was goodhearted and her eyes sparkled mirth and mischief. She held out her wrinkled hand for Sylvanas to take. "Now tell me what you really dreamed of while we dress and go home. I'm starving, and I'm not about to spoil myself with your precious dainties."

Time pressed onward.

They had continued pushing south, into Eversong Forest, and made good time, seeing the trees thin out and giving way to civilization. Some of these were spray-painted with a red X, indicating they were to be chopped down due to disease, old age, or—more beneficially—cut to be transported to the lumber or paper mills to be logged or made into pulp. The air had adopted a smoky haze, permeated with the sound of conversation and routine humdrum, and they knew for sure they were near one of the many smithies closest to the Elrendar River, though it would be another hour or so before they emerged fully from the wild.

They made camp by the banks and got a rudimentary fire going, and after taking turns working the spit they sat and had their fill of meat and water from their skins. They made a competition of tossing flat rocks and round pebbles they scrounged across the water while waiting for the food to cook, one after the other. Sylvanas admired the way it rippled with each hop and skip before the stone lost momentum and sank underneath to be carried off into the sea, where untold wonders and horrors awaited to claim it. The thought made her shiver with the thrill and discomfort it always brought.

After they had finished, Sylvanas reclined against the back of a tree, allowing the meal to digest. She anticipated the journey home with its usual fanfare: Vereesa all but sprinting out of the house to greet them and coming to a stop so fast she might fall when she saw the packets of primal cuts; Lirath peering around her to stare at them as though torn between wanting to devour them through some psychic means and wanting to give some to their neighbors; and their mother, Lireesa, sighing resignation upon having to decide for them, all but Lirath being grown, young adults (Vereesa was just on the cusp of it), again, that maybe it would a good idea to split them among everyone so they were all happy (and they could get on with the day and their lives, _it's just meat, children_ ).

Sylvanas smirked, chuckling, and closed her eyes as the clouds parted and the sun shone once more down on her. Alleria had wandered off somewhere, saying she had to go and stretch her legs before she got too comfortable sitting where she had been and fell asleep. Sylvanas didn't think she looked tired—they had woken up around the same time and she had done most of the tracking while Alleria tagged behind, like a shadow, and observed—but the day was slowly waning and the heat, for once, was bearable to endure, unlike this past week. She hoped a slight breeze would come in through the open window during the night so that she might sleep more soundly and dream once more.

Whatever other whimsical fancies she might have had were erased by a sudden weight that pressed down on her and jarred her from her stupor. "What the—" Sylvanas slumped into the tree until she was almost lying on her back, her shoulders squared and bunched together uncomfortably beneath the chainmail. She grasped the ground for purchase, trying not to slide further, but she only tore up grass and dug furrows in the dirt. "What in the world—" She looked at what was on top of her, paused, and sagged. "Oh belore," she groaned.

Alleria lay on top of her, sleeping. Her head was in the crook of her left arm, face half-buried. On her side, her legs were closed and bent up slightly at the knee so that she fit, more or less, snug between the other girl like a puzzle piece. One arm was thrown over both their heads, and if Sylvanas turned just enough she could see the fingers of her hand spread as far as they could go from the corner of her eye, barely touching the bark.

Her face was slack, mouth parted to reveal a set of tiny elven canines; and from it were the soft, rumbling snores being made with each slow crest and fall of her chest. Each exhalation of breath made her long, foliate ears tremble.

Sylvanas sighed, but smiled. "Silly girl. Is that why you were moving around so much back at the spring? So you wouldn't fall asleep, too, until we got back?" She reached over with both arms, settled them on Alleria's back, and gently pulled her hood off to stroke her hair. "The meat's going to spoil if you don't get up. I can't carry all of this back on my own…but I'll let you rest. Just for a little, okay? So don't get mad when I wake you up; we can rest as much as we want when we get home and put everything away."

Alleria didn't stir. She mumbled incoherently and pressed herself deeper into Sylvanas until she was properly on her side and had her left arm draped around her. Sylvanas grunted as she slid the rest of the way down the trunk and lay parallel to the floor. She huffed exasperation, but she continued running her fingers through her hair, picking and plucking at errant strands that caught the sun and turned them into white-gold silk. "I wish my hair could feel as nice and smooth as yours," she mumbled, lifting a decent band and watching it spill upon letting go. "You call me 'little moon', but I always thought you were the rising star in the family. You can shoot farther, track better, and kill more efficiently than I ever will…and, okay, you're sleeping and most likely won't even hear it, but I'll be the first to admit that. Proud, vain Sylvanas Windrunner coming clean to her faults when she refuses to recognize them under normal circumstances. Isn't that some—"

She glanced down. She had thought at first that Alleria's other hand was quashed under her or hidden away someplace on her waist where she couldn't see at this angle. She would have preferred it to be above her head to join the other.

It was on her breast, and armor be damned it was groping it quite firmly.

Sylvanas grimaced. She could sense so much as feel the blood in her temples pumping very, very loudly. "Alright. I know you're asleep. I know you don't know any better, but you know how this works; I've told you this several times. Only two people get to touch me like that: myself and my future lover…and as much as I love you, Alleria, you're not one of them, so if you'll excuse me…." She put both hands on Alleria's shoulders and shook her. Hard.

She didn't wake, but the tendons in her hand did stand out in greater prominence than before. She also shook her head, mumbling something that sounded a lot like "No, stahp" and burying her face into the dirt like some domestic house cat on a couch that didn't want to put up with any nonsense.

Sylvanas grit her teeth and shook her again, harder and roughly. "No, seriously, leggo, Alleria. Let. Go! Stop! Gerroff! I…can't…breathe…."

* * *

"…leggo goddammit…let…go…."

"No. Don't wanna."

Sylvanas's eyes snapped open, and instead of the golden crowns of Eversong Forest she was greeted by the sight of a cold, dark ceiling. Lightning lit up the bedroom that was not the room she had in Windrunner Village, and an instant later thunder boomed on the coattails of rain pounding sheets against a window that was certainly not open to let in the warm summer breeze.

Three things came to mind that endowed her with a clarity swift as the shocks from the Electric Chair:

One: She was no longer on Azeroth but in some dimension removed from reality called the Nexus.

Two: Since she was in the Nexus, that meant she was not alive but undead.

And three: Alleria was dead. El finito. Gone. Taken by the Light.

Then she looked down at the girl—this young, living, half-naked _child_ —lying on top of her.

"I don't wanna leggo," Nova grumbled, and squeezed Sylvanas's breast again. _Armor be damned,_ she thought sardonically. _Oh by the veil of Darkness, let armor be damned._ She licked her lips, puckered them, and snorted a loud, hoggish snore. "This 's mine… _can't have it_."

Sylvanas stared at her. A camera shutter of lightning threw the room into daylight for a blinding split second, and thunder stampeded on the heels of a calamitous crack that had to have struck a tree and set it on fire. Or struck someone's house so fast it created a sinkhole and went down under. That last one sounded much more likely and more amusing.

But what was this drivel she was hearing? Saying this body was _hers_ to keep?

Even as the vestiges of the dream were being wiped clean from her slate, she recalled what she had said to Alleria. They were juvenile words compounded by youth and foolish desire only the most horrific of tortures would compel her to confess, but they too contained some gold nugget of truth and wisdom matured like cheese and fine wine. If she could taste again, it would be full of bitter, nutty sweetness.

She looked at her hands which, to her utter dismay but not surprised in the least, were crisscrossed on Nova's back. Her nails—more like pale, ivory claws—made little indents in her skin. She could feel the girl shiver with the unnatural cold and try to, once again, snuggle up more for a warmth that would never return.

 _The dream made me do that,_ she deduced matter-of-factly. _Your body is no more under your control asleep than it is when magic wreaks havoc on you in the middle of a fight. Neither you nor her are to blame for the…positions you're in._

"I said 's _MINE_ ," Nova growled, and groped again—very, very firmly. "Saw her _FIRST_."

Sylvanas's brow furrowed. She sank her nails into her skin, lightly, and Nova froze, her snore pitched to a high, startled note. "Hwaaa-hwaa-hwaah?" she gasped. Her mouth fell open and dragged across her nape, marking her with a snail trail of drool; saliva crusted a corner of her mouth and cheek.

Sylvanas sneered and applied pressure, until she could feel the skin prick and the blood beaded around her nails. She let go just as Nova awoke, back muscles scrunching like an accordion. "Ow ow ow ow! Okay okay I'll leggo I'll leggo just stop hurting me—" She froze. Her eyes grew large at what she held.

Sylvanas glared.

Neither spoke.

The rain continued to pour and the wind continued to roar, making the trees headbang with panicked frenzy.

The color drained from Nova's face. "Oh. _Shit_ ," she said. In this studio-sized room (that didn't quite fit the image of a Banshee Queen, much less _The_ Banshee Queen) those two words belied the force of nuclear bombs.

She beheld Sylvanas's eyes, and in the gloom of—Powers, what time was it? Nova glanced at the alarm clock and saw it was six—the morning storm they radiated a predatory crimson.

"Uwawawawah!" Nova scrambled off Sylvanas and fell on her ass, legs folded under her and knees bumping together. She looked down at herself, colored at her monotone undergarments, and clapped her arms around her middle. It did no good and only served to make her chest pop up from their confines. "I know I say this a lot, but this isn't what it looks like! I-I dunno how I got here! I was in my room the whole night, I swear! You gotta believe me! I would never dare of molesting you!"

Sylvanas's expression didn't change, but her eyes went to the shadow dagger on the end table.

Nova crab-walked to the foot of the bed, giggling. "H-Hey now, Sylvie, let's discuss this like proper gentlewomen. I'm really, really sorry. This is all a misunderstanding, alright? Let's just laugh it off and, uh, go get us some breakfast. That sounds good, doesn't it? I'm sure we can find you something magical to feast on! Whaddya say—Sylvanas, put the dagger down. Put. The dagger. Down…NO! WAIT! LET ME PUT THE SHEET ON FIR—!"

* * *

Thunder drowned out the babble on the television set…but it was some reality talk show that Illidan had only put on for the noise and bore no interest to him, and his ears flexed at the sound of both the coffee maker and the microwave going off at the same time. Sighing, because he had gotten rather comfortable on the sofa than out of a sense of monotonous duty, he forced himself onto his feet and shuffled his way into the kitchen...which he managed to do just about as casually and normally as a person with regular eyesight could do. The simple-minded folk in his neck of the woods and those dingbat houseborn on their high horses (and they were called longhorses, because their necks were incredibly long and _no, you blind, savage mongrel, these are most definitely_ not _giraffes_ ) suggested he'd be supplied with a _cane_ —a cane, of all things! He was a demon hunter, not an invalid; just because his regular sight was burned away and replaced by something much better didn't mean he was one of those people who doused themselves in acid just to abuse the system! Even one such as he had standards, and so he did what any sensible person would do when a man of noble bearing with a smug smile on his face gave him a cane: grip it with all his might in both hands and bash him over the head with it. Repeatedly, until the bastard was bleeding and security had all but tackled him to the floor, clapping cold iron to his wrists and a nanorite-enforced electric net on his wings.

Good times.

He yawned hugely as he made his way to the coffee maker, uncaring of the chill of the floor on his bare feet. Stopping in front of the counter, he sniffed the air. Aether-touched java beans harvested and exported from the valleys of Ani Ani, in the southernmost region of in the realm nearest the Anchor. When brewed it smelled like overcooked fried chicken and going down was like taking a ride on a fantastic mud slide, but the aftertaste was soft, the flavor enriched like a flower in bloom the longer it sat on his tongue. It was…okay. He had had better, but taxes were so high here in King's Crest and java beans in that part of Luxoria, where the energy output was quiet at best and simmering at worst, were a delicacy that only those with the money bulging out of their pockets or managed to snag them first thing in the morning when the shipments restocked the shelves at the local markets. He was lucky to have gotten some at the Redenbach Food Pantry in Echo City (a pretty grungy place; it was nicknamed Little Jeetilopolis—nowhere near as massive but nowhere near as turbulent as the quintessential gangland) when he went last week. Someone must really not have cared for them, so he gave whoever donated them a silent bit of credit.

He snagged the ceramic mug from the rack in the sink, a very dark green thing etched with a very light green symbol of the Illidari back home on…well, Outland, last he recalled. It was dry, so he put it down with a clink, removed the pot, and poured himself some Joe. Steam whispered from the depths. He blew on it and took a perfunctory sip. The insides of his cheeks and his taste buds were afflicted with a sharp heat, but he was a man's man, and that was not a hiss that had come out of his mouth. It was merely air, goddammit, a sound of relief—

It was not like anyone was here to point it out to him.

No one had to know.

He set the mug on the counter and stopped the incessant beeping the microwave liked to use to remind him there was food with the push of a button. He pressed another beneath that and the door popped open, the smell of cooked bratwurst, scrambled eggs, diced peppers, buttermilk and seasoning wafting through the air. He turned away for a moment to yank open the drawer next to him and fetched a fork (gleaming clean with perfection). Thunder boomed again, further this time, and somehow that caused the TV blathering to sound very loud in the utter quiet that followed. That had always unnerved him; it made him think of Kil'jaeden and his nathrezim scheming in the shadows, of screeching fel bats swarming the sickly green sky of Shadowmoon Valley, far and away from the spires of the Black Temple that had once been the Temple of Karabor. It was always the calm before the storm, a signal predating the clash of blades, the stench of ozone riding hot on the tails of fel-based spells, the beat of wings that were louder, larger, powerful than the tallest doomguard and most cunning dreadlord.

But that was neither here nor there, and the patter of rain brought him back into the Nexus. Into reality, because goddamn was he hungry. That breakfast bowl wasn't going to eat itself…but the Nexus is a very cruel, very stupid, very bizarre place. He'd heard—and seen—stranger things happen before.

Nostrils flaring, he gripped the fork tight—tight enough for the cords in his arms and the veins in his hand to jump and press against his skin. His ears perked up as high as they could go on his skull (and oh, how he wished he could have the flexibility of a high elf…blood elf…whatever they called themselves these days, and shoot them straight up…like a dog!). He sucked in a deep breath, pectorals and abs swelling, and leaned back. Back, so that he looked right out of the window from the bottoms of his eyes (and the blindfold, but no one liked seeing bits of bones and scar tissue; that was fine by him, he thought it made him look pretty bitchin').

Lightning sketched an epileptic camera flash across the wall.

He raised his arm.

"YOU! ARE NOW… _ready_!" He had reared back, shouting at the ceiling, and upon the final word lunged forward at the exact moment thunder crashed. He had brought his arm down in a swift, stabbing strike, and at the last second, as he doubled over, slowed it to a crawl. He poked the fork's tines through a diced cube of bratwurst—tentatively, then with more force. Grease spilled from it into the bowl and mixed with the oil of the eggs. Good.

He scooped it up, taking some diced pepper with it. Straightened it up, brought the fork to his lips, and popped the morsel into his mouth. He chewed, chewed, chewed…and nodded.

Very good.

He swallowed, sighing content. A helluva better than fried chicken and mud slides. Illidan placed the fork inside the plastic black bowl and took said bowl out of the microwave. He closed the door shut, snagged his coffee cup, and went back into the living room. He set the cup down on the table and sat up to a slouch with the bowl in both hands.

Fork in hand, he began to eat.

He didn't care much for the topics that were being discussed on here nor the so-called celebrities (who cared if someone could juggle swords and swallow them point-first when you could eat demon souls and live on the edge like a real risk-taker?) that were brought on to show off their cooking skills ( _I can do better,_ was the thought directed at the stocky man lobbing a turtle's head from the neck with a machete, and Illidan sniffed disdainfully at the fountain of blood getting all over the counter) or the local band that closed out the program at the end of the hour ( _You call that headbanging? Amateurs_ , and he groused at the way the lead vocalist—some long-haired, rail-thin chap colored head to toe in tattoos and spiked bracelets snatched the mike stand in one hand, flashed the hook 'em horns with the other, and rocked the hell out while screaming like a banshee (he was greeted with an image of Sylvanas dressed all in black, face painted and decked in studded bracelets, long, silver chain necklaces, and gothic-inspired jewelry, and that made one thin, black eyebrow twitch aggravatingly).

Swallowing his morsel, he reached across for the TV remote on the glass-topped end table; his hand all but dwarfed it, looking little more like a chalkboard eraser with pretty colored buttons than a remote control. Fitting it to his grip, he leaned into the couch and started flipping through channels. With each one he spent a few seconds tuning in to the program, and for each one he scoffed or clucked his tongue or rolled his eyes, depending on how preposterous, obnoxious, and miraculously disbelieving he found them to be.

He went past Oliver Steadfast's True Crime Stories on Channel 5660, a former NIB agent who would talk about some of the cases that went unsolved or unexplained throughout the thirty-three millennia that marked the Age of Transition, but Illidan always thought all the old technology lying around could be recovered from the Wilds, the Shadowskirts and the Anchordeeps and repurposed; it wasn't like King's Crest was in the Dark Ages anymore, so why not send their precious Realm Knights out there and do something about it? If the threat of Darkness was so serious, then they should do all they could to break the eternal stalemate and drive them back into the Void and get the economy back on its feet. The government, on the other hand…that was something the people themselves had to work with, if they could pull their head from their asses long enough to see what the houseborn were doing to them. But that required thinking and reading comprehension, and most people in the Nexus were either woefully incapable of it or could not care less, being drenched in their repressive, unhealthy behaviors. If they couldn't be bothered to save themselves from poverty, then they deserved what they got. The Houses would continue to walk all over them and the Powers would continue to mind their own business.

Typical.

Seeing this pasty fogey's face made Illidan's fangs clench, so he hefted the remote and changed it. He kept suppressing the Channel Up button, flying past irrelevant commercials, infomercials, TV talk shows, and multiuniversal music stations, until he finally landed on Channel 6009, KCBNHDW10804K—King's Crest Broadcasting Network in High-Definition…widescreen, 1080 parity, and in 4K (easily detectable for him; demon eyes did wonders). He had come in right in the midst of the local forecast, speaking about the flooding way out in the Wend that had already put parts of the lowlands underwater and causing the irrigation ducts surrounding the satoyama to overflow ("…reports are coming in that the Regional Guard are being deployed to evacuate residents to higher ground, along with an alarming number of moat investors and flat earth theorists…" the weatherman was saying). The storm system was large, the satellite radar showed, with a small, empty spot that looked suspiciously like the eye of a hurricane, but this was a common occurrence for Nexus-based storms, leaving a large spot of breaking cloud cover and areas of sunshine for beleaguered locals to catch their breath before they were unceremoniously dumped on again an hour later.

"Bah," he said, dropping the remote upright into the crease between the seats. Bah, indeed. A little rain did nothing to hamper a demon hunter. A little rain, for such a soldier, was like being punched by a mosquito. He had trained—and then, later on, trained his initiates—in weather far worse than this. Falling infernal meteors and acidic rain? Now there was something to worry about. These people knew nothing of true suffering until they felt the heat burn holes through their skin and the felfire cooking up some nice, green smoke from the inferno that was their hair. Or toupees; those old bastards in King's Crest certainly loved to doff them with expensive oils and brushes that would look more at home at a Pet-Stop Emporium than on someone's million-gold armoire. But hey, if anyone was up to becoming a demon hunter then all they had to do slay a demon and eat its heart and drink its blood, sacrifice their eyesight for something that can see through layers in reality, and carve arcane runes on their bodies that may or may not affect their ability to wield their spells of old.

That, and demon wings made for great umbrellas. They saved money on those third-rate _things_ labored in the back of Luxoria's favelas.

The doorbell rang. Ears flapping, he turned his head in the direction of the sound. _Now who could that be?_ He drew upon the demon within himself and focused it into his eyes. What remained of them—scorched sockets riddled with pinpricks of bone—exuded a soft, radiant green light that, under normal circumstances, would make most people look away, for staring at the eyes of a demon hunter was like looking directly at the sun. In that moment, everything in his humble abode turned green.

There was a shape behind the door, almost right on top of it, hunched over and…lumpy?

 _Another passing salesman…._ He deactivated the spectral sight and returned his attention to the TV, which was now showing what appeared to be the sports segment of the hour. It still surprised him (but again, no one had to know) that this place had something other than team-based, no holds barred mortal combat that would put the Roman emperors of old to shame and make them look like children playing dress-up. Basketball, baseball, soccer, American football, cribbage, horseback riding, monster truck rallies, skeet shooting…and somehow, with all that revenue they were able to rake in prior to and after the League's revival, they still couldn't keep their head above the waters of perpetual poverty. How stupid could be people?

The doorbell rang again.

Illidan growled. "Go away," he said, loudly enough for whoever it was to get the memo and beat it.

A pause…and then a third time.

"I'm not interested." _I have everything I could want here. Leave me alone._

Ah, now the segment had moved onto the League itself, and lo and behold, the picture presented him what he lovingly dubbed the Asshole Brigade. The lordlings and their sister-ladies in equal measure, reclining in posh leather seats with their shitty beer bottles in plastic cup holders and Cuban cigars held between ring-decked fingers, tips powdered white from whatever flavor of the month (more like flavor of the week) drug they dabbled in. Where the Powers That Be drew across the spacetime continuum and goaded their respective teams into seeking glory in combat, it was the houseborn that ultimately had the run of the mill in all things political and financial: who came first for that lovely prepackaged housing and government aid, who got the free stuff when there was a surplus of commodities imported from different realms, who received treatment of the transition depending on how much favor and goodwill they curried under their eternal servitude. It was as though Illidan was staring right at them and not separated by a plastic molding and lightyears upon lightyears away between here and the Mezzanines in Luxoria, but it didn't stop the ire and disgust rising like hot bile in his chest and up his throat. It didn't when their flunkies tossed the net, cuffed him, and hauled him to the brig to 'cool off' until Malfurion and a couple other Heroes he couldn't remember managed to convince one of the houseborn nobles—Gabriel Endomere? Yes, that was his name—to release him into their custody. He wasn't sure which was worse: being locked up for ten thousand years for doing what no one had the balls to do to stop the Burning Legion, or get locked up and be treated like a circus animal by immortal hedonists with line after line after line of successions filling their administrative seats and their pockets. His wrath was increased tenfold not because Gabriel wasn't present-half the houseborn families weren't—but because that prick Alfonse Arridhon was sitting front and center in the screen: long-legged, hair slicked back and falling over the back of the chair like a red serpent, his suit white as cream and pressed against his slender body more stiffly as cardboard than flimsy as water—a result of too much starch and time on the ironing board, wearing that same smug, shitty, toothy smile _(probably whitened so no one notices all the nicotine stains)_ when he offered Illidan the hardwood cane to hobble around on. It felt so good driving it home against his head and seeing that grin get wiped off his face. If only he'd put his full weight into that swing; would Arridhon's scion change then upon respawning? Perhaps he should have used the arte of metamorphosis and really get them to soil their drawers—

The doorbell went off in a series of rapid-fire DING-DONG DING-DONG DING-DONG DING-DONG DING-DONG—

"That's it." Illidan got up from the couch and stalked up to the door. Fel energy spewed from his back and shaped into massive, purple, claw-tipped wings, solidified and unfurling with a thick, canvassing sound. His hand dwarfed the knob. "I said I'm not interest—" He stopped.

It was not a passing salesman looking to hustle their wares, nor was it, a dark part of him hoped, was a manservant or emissary from the houseborn. This person was small, so much smaller compared to him, and was hunched over and certainly lend itself to appear quite lumpy. Then the lump righted itself and a head full of long blonde hair peeked out from what Illidan realized was a white bed sheet, gazing up at him with wide, blue eyes full of transitioned innocence.

"Hey, man," said Nova, and she couldn't have stuttered it better. She was half-naked and dripping. There were the phantom scratches, small and pockmarked, above the swell of her breasts he recognized to have come from a knife. "You, uh, don't mind me crashing here for a bit, do you? The Hall spat me out here."

He could just feel his wings droop with disappointment. "What did you do this time," he asked.

"Now you know if I do something, it's not without good intention. But this time was an accident…honest!" She tugged the sheet closer. "Can I come in? I'm really cold."

Illidan tried not to sigh. He folded his wings into the flesh of his back as a decompressing funnel of magic and stepped to the side. "Bathroom's upstairs at the end of the hall. There are towels in the wall closet when you walk in." Then, as Nova hustled inside onto the landing, he added, "Give me the bed sheet. I'll…throw it in the wash." He didn't have much in his basket—demon hunters often moved more freely without button-ups and flannel shirts getting in the way—but there were a bunch of loose slacks, a few shirts when the need did arise for it, and gauze bandages that were sitting around in the laundry room waiting to be done. What was one more item? "Come on. Get in here before you catch something." He held out his hand to take it.

Nova beamed at him. "Hey, thanks, Illidan! Here!" She whipped the sheet off her and, instead of giving it to him, wrung it out on the carpet she was standing on and went through the motions of a folding it into a decent-sized square. Then she put it into his hand and bounded up the stairs.

Illidan stared at the bed sheet as though he was seeing it for the first time. Then he did sigh, feeling not the building headache that usually comes with having Nova—any transitioned person—around but the expectation of whatever snafu she got herself into…this time.

He closed the door and padded across the living room, past the kitchenette and into the laundry room off to the side. He got the washing machine going, filled it with detergent, and dumped the sheet and his basket inside. He closed the lid, left, and went to fetch the empty breakfast bowl. He dumped it in the garbage receptacle and tossed the fork into the sink. There was a roar of rushing water from the pipes, barely discernible above the rainfall, and then, as if the plug had been pulled, it stopped. Nova was in the bath now. He hoped she was smart enough to soak in there for a while and not come flying out fifteen minutes later with her hair wrapped in a turban and wearing one of his robes (not to mention drag them across the floor, holy hell) in the hopes she wasn't keeping him waiting.

He eyed the coffee pot and the microwave, then looked at the cabinets. He went to one, opened it, and pawed at the paper boxes of teabags. One by one he pulled them out to read the labels: Bohea from a time where the Boston Tea Party failed to occur; decaffeinated peach tea from Lipton; butter tea from the Silk Road along the Khyber Pass; some generic, signature Hub-Mart green tea; exported thistleleaf from Jeetilopolis, elderberry and paopu fruit from Gucchaga in Luxoria, and bloodberry tea harvested from the berries that grew on the fringes of (he had to squint to read the fine print) the Understory Shadowskirt in south King's Crest that was later purified and processed in a factory. He stopped on a pack of raspberry tea, shrugged, and took it out.

He set about making it as Nova did with the sheet: put some water in a cup, warm it to near boiling temperature in the microwave, pour it in another mug ("COME WAKE THE DRAGON!" the font exclaimed, and on the other side was the Dragon Knight done in blue and green avant-garde stenciling) and set the teabag inside to steep. Once that was done he made to take it, but stopped, reconsidered. After a bit of pondering he went to the counter and opened the lid of a tin situated by the spice rack. Sugar cookies of shapes and sizes and how much sugar was sprinkled on them gleamed back at him from their paper cups. Nodding, he closed it, picked it up, grabbed the mug, and carried them to the living room where he set them on the table.

He sat on the couch. The sports section was finally done and had moved onto something else. Perhaps Nova's sudden arrival was a blessing in disguise, after all. Illidan considered the many possibilities of what he would have done if she hadn't. Punch a hole through the TV and buy another? Remove the sports channel package that came with the DVR and waste his time on receptionists debating the statistical value of supply and demand? Go out in person and attempt to assassinate Alphonse Arridhon, his lackies, and any Realm Knight that slipped from their pocket of reality to his at the slightest sign of temporal disturbance? Deal with a mob of fan girls as he made a beeline for Hero League HQ?

Illidan stared down at himself, at his broad pectorals, swirling runes, and the shredded ridges of abdominal muscles rising and falling in time with his breath. He debated putting a shirt on. Maybe a jacket; pullovers and hoodies that could contain his horns were very hard to come by. He made a frustrated sound, slouched into the cushions, spread his legs out, and waited.

Nova emerged from the bathroom a half hour, coming down the steps in not just a bathrobe (and a towel tucked under her damp hair) but in a combo of loosely hanging shirt and slacks he made certain, after the first few times Sylvanas's temper tantrums caused the Hall of Storms to spit the girl here (why did she have to destroy the Sturmhause? Just why? Why couldn't everyone have been relocated elsewhere and not all over the place like the State of Hubland?). She appeared more presentable, not showing as much skin as she had when she came upon his doorstep. He wondered, if only briefly, just what she was doing prior to Sylvanas sticking her.

He directed his sneer at the TV. _No. Sylvanas would never take advantage of her, and vice versa. What the hell am I thinking?_ He settled his face into bored indifference when she sat down next to him. "I made you tea and brought you something to eat," he said, indicating the mug and tin. "It's not much."

Nova glanced at the tin. "Sugar cookies?" She laughed. "Illidan, I didn't know you had a sweet tooth! That's cute!"

He shrugged, trying not to scowl. "Every little bit helps."

"And it's much appreciated! Thanks, man." Nova snagged a cookie with a spot of glazed cherry filling out of its paper. "Share some with me."

"I had a breakfast bowl earlier."

"You're getting hungry later, anyway. Didn't your mother ever tell you to never let a girl eat by herself?" She waggled the cookie at him like a schoolmarm with her finger toward a miscreant child.

"I can barely remember my mother's face, much less my father's."

"Nonsense! It's always good to eat with someone."

"I guess."

"Well, come on! It won't eat itself, you know!"

"You'd be surprised," he grumbled, but he took a cookie from the tin and inspected it. This one had green sprinkles on it, so much so it reminded him of all the twigs and leaves stuck in Malfurion's beard and hair. Ugh. He tossed the whole thing in his mouth and tried to scrub the mental image from his mind as he chewed and swallowed. "Not bad. I've had these for over a year. You'd think they'd have gone stale by now."

"Anything would taste good after respawning." She scrunched her face. "Except sushi. Yuck."

"Demon entrails are no better." He reached for another cookie. "So," he began, getting to the root of the matter, "tell me."

"Eh?"

"What you did," he said patiently. "You did something to Sylvanas that made her snap."

"I didn't make her—!" Nova sputtered, gesticulated wildly (but at least she wasn't spitting crumbs, thank the Spaces). "Look. When I said it was an accident, I meant it. I had a…a hard time sleeping last night, kinda putzed around a little, went back to bed and…uh…woke up in her bed?"

Ah, yes. The one three floors down from where she bunked with Hammer. A convenient place for the Nexus's number one domestic terrorist to tear out of there when the geese start flying south. "And…?"

"And…?"

"What happened?"

"Nothing indecent, I swear!"

"But you did do something."

"I didn't know I was going to wake up groping her! I was just as shocked as she was!"

"Oh, I'll bet," said Illidan, sardonic. "For a woman of her temperament, being 'shocked' is the same as saying you're fine while your house is falling down around you."

"She doesn't know any better! She's undead! They think differently than us mere mortals do."

"Yes. On that we can agree on. No one in their right mind would think 'I'm going to kill this person because they disturbed me from my rest' the instant they wake up unless they're doing something in that instance."

"Except Sylvanas did."

"Except she did. Now, because this was done on private property, school officials are going to have the Knights come down on her and deliver her to the Board themselves because the NIB can't deal with her even if they were properly equipped. Not to mention she's been processed too many times to even bother running her through the systems beyond adding her misdemeanors and felonies to her record."

Nova kneaded the robe between her fingers. In that moment, she looked so much like the child compared to his twelve thousand years of age. "I…I didn't mean to cause her any trouble. I really did have a hard time sleeping."

"I know you didn't," Illidan said, gently. "You probably sought for her company deep down and went to her."

She grimaced. "It was better than going to Hammer. She'd just tease me about it."

Would it be? Waking up next to Hammer made him want to experience the fabled mind-wipe Ghosts like her went through that he heard so much about, but at least she wouldn't murder Nova right from the get-go. Maybe she would give her a hard time. Maybe she wouldn't. Illidan didn't hang around her long enough to form a lasting opinion on her outside of being an absolute nutcase who may as well be untouched by the transition and having brass balls bigger and more obnoxious than the houseborn ego. "Did she give you a chance to explain yourself?"

"You know I always try to!"

"But she didn't."

"She moves fast! Have you seen the way she moves? You elves know how to put a cheetah to shame!"

"It's not just the ears, is it?" His own flickered and batted against the sides of his head.

"And the fangs! You are walking, talking, spotless cheetahs!"

 _Sometimes I wish I had a tail, though,_ Illidan thought. _A big, long, scaly tail. Like a dragon's._ He chased away the transitioned thought and the predatory grin following behind it by swiping up his mug and gulping down coffee that had long since gone cold. When he finished, he said, "So she didn't let you finish, if you spoke at all. She just decided to pitch a fit and take her anger out on you."

"She let me keep the sheet on," said Nova.

So she did, but knowing her it probably wasn't out of a sense of preserving someone's dignity. He couldn't help but wonder how much more quickly Sylvanas would have reacted if Nova forewent clothing and wind up sleepwalking into her room.

He discarded that passing fancy, too, as soon as it had formed…except his mug was empty. Illidan considered excusing himself to pour some more, reached for the mug, paused, and decided against it. He leaned back with a sigh. "I don't know why you bother with her sometimes. She's an obnoxious crab-ass."

"She's undead," Nova input, lamely.

"But that doesn't excuse the way she treats you half the time." Even if, he wanted to say, sometimes that particular half was a result of the transition wiring the girl in a way that made her as energetic and attention-seeking as a puppy whose education just couldn't seem to stick after dying and respawning Spaces knew how many times. No matter how much she suffered, she still kept trying, and Illidan wasn't sure whether to find that very bold and impressive or stupid and utterly pointless. "I'm not saying she should have to act like a saint"—and who could imagine Sylvanas Windrunner having the personality let alone the patience of one?—"but she should know better and show a little…no, a lot more tact…restraint…dismissing your company."

"She does. She," and Nova fidgeted, "she has her moments."

"That I'm sure I can count on one hand," he said, and felt—not a twang of regret, he knew what he was saying, but something that might have been pity for her with the way she flinched and curled up on herself. He sighed again and ran a hand across the fringe of hair between his horns. "Don't take this the wrong way, Nova, but where it concerns advice for…interpersonal relationships, I am the last person you should be coming to." An image of Tyrande came to mind—sweet, lovely Tyrande, one arm hooked around Malfurion's, and Illidan pushed it away before the first inklings of jealousy could take root. Now was not the time; it had stopped being that time long ago. "You only come here because you're situated at the university for the time being and my place is the closest to where the Hall of Storms respawns you at."

Nova poked at the sugar cookie in her hands, turning it in little clockwise circles. "Should I go to someone else?" she asked in a small voice.

"That's up to you. You have to do what makes you feel comfortable. You could go to someone like Jaina or Johanna or…even Tyrande, but they'll only tell you what they want you to hear." He frowned. "They think you're a child, Nova, seeped in transition and warped by your Dominion's memory wipes. They try to pamper you with the idea that since you are here in the Nexus you are so separated from time and space it means you are safe. Secured.

"You're not. The Nexus is just as dangerous as it was back home. With a change in environment comes a change of the mind. You can't just go to someone and always expect an honest answer from them. Who is to say it's the transition speaking and not them?

The girl's brow furrowed. "How do I know it's you saying that and not what the transition makes you want to say?"

He bit back the feral smile that wanted to come out. Instead he met her gaze head-on, felfire eyes smoldering lightly behind the blindfold. "Oh, I _know_ who I am. _I'm_ the one in control of this mind and body, not this… _thing_. That is one thing you must remember, Nova, above all laws and preconceived notions in this universe: the transition is no different than a demon. It is but an invisible monster that can be conquered and tamed. It may try to make you think and act out of character, it may make you seem as though you are another person entirely, but though it may succeed in some way, at the end of the day, _I_ am the one who says and thinks what _I_ want. _I_ decide what I want to do and how to go about it. Whatever sway it has over me, it will never last for long.

"But we're going off-topic, and that is something I can overlook; it is one but symptom that is simple to deal with. I am only here to provide, and what I provide is that I will tell you how it is. I will not gloss anything over or soften the blow under the auspices that you're a 'child' or you 'can't handle it'. You're a soldier. You've dealt with far worse. A little pep talk from the Lord of Outland is no different than talking to your superiors, no?"

Now a line formed between her brow, and Illidan can sense—almost feel—the irritation, the despair of youth and internal conflict—radiating off her in waves. Yet her voice was calm and steady: "I'm still me."

And now he finally let the grin slide out into the open, full of a dark, serpentine humor. "Are you saying it or is the transition saying—"

"Me, Illidan. I'm saying this, and I say I still want to see Sylvanas. I want her to see me. I don't want to be in the way."

He quirked a brow. "No matter how many times you die?"

She shrugged nonchalantly—almost uncaringly. "Wiping my mind clean is like dying, right? It's kind of the same thing, except that this go-around this mind is my mine now. It'll just get stronger with each death."

Illidan hummed, nodding. "I see. Very well. I will not stop you in this endeavor, though I think you should spend your time and efforts on someone much more worthwhile. You are free to heed my words or my advice in whatever way you please…or not at all. The choice is yours. But know this, Nova: however you do it, you must do it for yourself. Do not do this just so you can prove everyone wrong."

She leaned back, startled. "I didn't say—"

"No, you didn't. Your body alone speaks loud enough. Can't you tell? Or are you so engrossed in your troubles you can't even read my thoughts? That's how a Ghost is, yes, or am I wrong?"

He expected her to snap at him, or be caught off guard and deny it, just as she had done many times before; it wouldn't have surprised him. Instead she wilted, a sullen, little flower condemning its fate as the sun and time and weather bore down on its shoulders. If she had been an elf, her ears would have drooped. "People are stupid," she grumbled. "They think because I lose my sense of self sometimes means I'm living in blissful ignorance. They think they're above me just because they have a better grasp on reality…but they're not." Her eyes narrowed, hard and blue as ice. These were not the eyes of a Ghost, though Illidan had seen the look in those elves that had come to him, despondent and angry at the world for what it had done to them. This one's fires still burned, though the passage of time had tempered and made them simmer, waiting for that first match to strike. "They're wrong, Illidan. It's kinda funny how they think they're better than others like me when we're affected all the same."

"In that case, it is not the transition that makes people react that way. It is simply human nature. Not even gods and demiurges can dare to rise above that lest they become shells of their former selves."

"Or break free from it."

"Then they are going to have to do plenty of breaking before they can achieve that state of transcendence." Illidan glanced at the clock on the wall. It was going on half past seven, but though the thunder had tapered off the rain had not. "I've said it before, and I'll say it this one last time: whatever reason the Powers have for drawing you here, you have the means to choose how you wish to live your life here. You, Nova—not the simpletons on the Board; not the noblesse or the middle-class or the serfs whose aspirations are beyond their grasp; not even the Powers. You want to earn the favor of Sylvanas Windrunner, the Banshee Queen? Then by all means, do what you must. Who cares what other people think of you? Let them spit and snarl. They're not worth it." He snatched a sugar cookie and popped it into his mouth. After a moment, he heard Nova make a contemplative sound and do the same.

They spoke no more on the matter. For the next hour and a half they did not so much watch TV as let it do its thing and let the time go by, throwing in a snide or snarky comment here and there. They had even laughed, but though Illidan gave voice to the occasional growling chuckle, Nova did not. The smile that could normally be found in her eyes was absent; the one on her face may as well be plastered.

Illidan said nothing of it, though he took note of it.

At a quarter to nine, during a commercial break, Nova spoke up. "I should get going. Hammer's probably wondering where I ran off to."

He raised a shoulder in an indifferent shrug. "She'll live. Local police and CSI are just as useless as the rest of the NIB. Gone are the days when the government would thoroughly investigate and process the scene of the crime. Now it's just one look, a trite payment for going out of their way to look stupid, and they leave. Not even the Realm Knights of the Spaces In-Between are any better, for all their pomp and grandstanding. They have other things to worry about than some no-name Hero having a temper tantrum."

"She should still know. Respawning doesn't exactly defeat concern."

"No, it doesn't." He got up from the couch. "Your clothes should be dry by now. Give me a few minutes." He went to a closet between the laundry room and the stairwell riser and took out a drawstring rucksack and a snakeskin leather jacket. He took the clothes out of the hamper, folded them, and placed them inside.

When he came back, Nova had disposed of the robe and made to hand it to him to put inside. He shook his head. "It's fine. Leave it here." _You never know when you might need it again,_ he thought, and, judging by the way she blushed, she sensed it. "Here. It's still raining outside." He passed her the jacket, to which she put on, and walked her to the door. "Take an umbrella." He gestured to the stand at the landing.

"I can manage," she said, but she took one nonetheless. She slipped on a pair of loafers and worked the sheaves of long hair inside the jacket before up the hood and tying the laces in a knot, then pulled the rucksack's straps over her shoulders. "It'll probably come down harder later today when it passes through the Wend. I don't really plan on going out anywhere except maybe do some grocery shopping."

"I wouldn't wait any longer than mid-afternoon to go, otherwise you'll be hitting the evening rush."

"At least it's not the weekend."

"Yet." He opened the door. The rain was coming down in a steady downpour and not in the torrential curtain sheets it did in the past few hours. Brown and grey cobblestones wound away from the doorstep for several meters before they ended abruptly and became wild and green with grass, where stalks of wildflowers bowed and bobbed beneath the strength of the weather. "Not too bad out right now," he commented, idly.

"No," said Nova, and took a step. Then she stopped, and turned around. "Hey, Illidan….?" She paused, waiting tentatively for a response. When he rumbled in his throat for her to continue, she pressed on. "This is going to sound pretty out of left field, but…be honest with me, alright?"

He motioned his hand in small, tight circles: go on.

"You and Sylvanas…is there any—"

"No."

"Eh? Do you know what I'm ask—"

"Yes, I do. And no. _NOOOOOOOO._ " He emphasized, drawing the word—and his fangs—out. His shadow loomed over her, causing the girl to shrink away. "Do you believe everything you hear?"

"No, but—"

"I can forgive the peasants for being stupid; they don't always have the parentage or the proper education to know better. But the middle class and the bourgeois? _Unacceptable. Unforgivable._ And whoever told you I am a match for her needs to go purchase some goddamned glasses because they can't see past the darkness with their head up their own ass! Now," he said, leaning away to regard her down the length of his nose, "are there any other questions?"

Nova shook her head slowly. "No," she said, in a small, timid voice.

"Are you sure?"

"Yessir." A pause. Then, "At least, I think so—"

"No, you're very sure."

"I guess so."

"I know so. Run along now…before Hammer decides to rub two brain cells together and come here." He could just imagine her reclined all the way back in the sofa chair like some rock star on her throne, rambling on and on and on about warheads and napalm and blueprints for warheads and napalms and how much more powerful can she make the BFG so she can hit a Power and—Illidan groaned inwardly, forcefully cutting those thoughts off before they could evade him full steam ahead.

Nova nodded. "Okay. Thanks, Illidan…for listening." She faced the tip of the umbrella outside and popped it open before raising it above her head. "I'll see you around?"

"Same place, as always. If not, you know where to find me."

He stayed in the middle of the threshold and watched her go until she disappeared around the bend and down the incline. When she was gone, he closed the door and went back to sit on the couch. The TV was now showing another of those celebrity 'news' shows that didn't double-check their facts nor site their sources in order to peddle media bias and gotcha journalism for viewership numbers and ad revenue. Right now, someone was saying the Realm Knights were allegedly reported to be on what was considered an 'extended vacation' because activity from the Realm of Darkness and the Shadowskirts-cum-Edges were at an annual low. No one knew why nor bothered to go out and simply ask, but those that did (those being _them_ , he figured) were able to learn that, supposedly, the Head Commissars operating from the Sunless Reaches recalled most of their active forces back into the aether for reasons they could 'not disclose'. In other news, there were reports of a number of missing person cases cropping up in the non-participant realms within the Nexus—

Illidan sighed and tuned it out, laying his head back to stare up at the ceiling. In the back of his mind, a voice told him that if he wasn't going to watch it, he should turn it off. Taxes were high enough as it is, did he want to have to raise his bills when they came in through the mail?

He didn't care about that right now. His mind was on the girl.

She was damaged, not only on a developmental level but a metaphysical. The transition, it is often told, is like taking prescription medication. It has the ability to dull the senses for a short time. On the other hand, it also has the ability to exacerbate them tenfold, like a high, and, unlike most OTC drugs and pharmaceuticals, did not go away. Instead, it simply dug further into the psyche, as though on a journey, and came back bearing fruits—fruits flowered from seed that were sometimes best left buried away, never to be opened. It was why people in the Nexus were so insane and couldn't stay stable and sane long enough to help others let alone help themselves from perpetual economic ruin and millennia of nepotism, simony, and bastard feudalism. Even the least transitioned folk, like Tyrande and Malfurion, were prone to spurts and fits of breaking character, almost as if giving in to behaviors and quirks of a person they were not.

Nova moved from one behavior to the next—the childlike disposition of the transitioned to the Ghost who was not pledging loyalty by the gold to the Board and the Houses—with the fluidity of a coin toss.

It was almost as if she were trying to swim for the surface, only to be dragged back down and become lost to the depths. Trapped, but escaping her bonds each and every time, but for much longer—and much shorter—than usual.

It was almost as if she was approaching a state of normalcy. Ascending from one state of mind to the other, but never quite able to reach it.

 _How, though?_ Illidan wondered, drumming his fingers on the armrest. _The latency period for a person that is born or drawn into the Nexus is between instantaneous and two days, in which case someone who does not show immediate symptoms will thus prove to be asymptomatic and the transition will incubate between, give or take, twelve to thirty-six hours before it fully manifests._

He searched through a backlog of forgotten memories hazy with fog and degradation: the Houses acquiring the rights and licenses of the Interdimensional Sports Association and all its subsidiaries as their first step to reviving the Nexus Hero League; that beautiful, final growth spurt the stock market experienced when twenty-two individuals of varying levels of strength and importance, dubbed Heroes, were called upon into the Nexus one by one as decreed by the Powers That Be before it ultimately crashed and burned not even two months later when the status quo returned to zero; serfs and peasants and commonfolk and the greaseball fat cat noblesse that got off their lazy hides and made their pilgrimage to see these strange outworlders ( _Riftwalkers?_ he had heard them ask him once, and he shook his head no, he had never heard of Riftwallkers and would not meet one until a month into his stay) and make an opinion on them after assessing their first impressions.

Of all the Heroes that had been summoned at the onset and arrived from the Wilds, Nova was the last—terrified, twitchy, and so very confused. So very unlike the cold, emotionless mercenary the Board's records described her to be.

There were barely a couple sheets on her. Even her variants had more information.

 _They're hiding something._ Were they? The last time he perused the public records was when Tracer was drawn; he always made it a ritual to learn his opponents and study from the strengths and weaknesses they possessed. As far as he could recall, there was nothing in there that indicated redaction or sanitized. Any effects the transition yielded were openly documented for everyone to see.

 _Those are public. Who's to say they don't have anything on her—on anyone—locked away in their offices?_

Illidan growled and closed his eyes. _Maybe I'm over-thinking this, like usual. Maybe this is a whole lot of nothing. Maybe this is how the transition's supposed to be for her. The only way to deal with it is tame it; no one, not even I or Windrunner, can make her do that._

Maybe that was what she needed: to get away from Sylvanas, get away from the Shire. Go somewhere, slow down, and breathe. Love could either be a very easy or very hard thing to come by in the Nexus, and, sometimes, that love made them a better person. Helped them cope with the transition and the personality they adopted, quirks and all.

Sometimes it made it worse.

 _I don't know what you see in her,_ Illidan thought. He thought about a lot of things that didn't make sense to him. This one just happened to be the main thing that eluded him the most.

"Maybe she'll figure it out," he said aloud. _Or maybe she won't,_ he added silently, and returned his attention to the television set.


End file.
